


Shot Through The Heart

by peanutbutterjelly-pie (Aleakim)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Bisexual Dean, Case Fic, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men of Letters, Rating will change throughout the story, Slow Build, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Tension, kinda "enemies" at least, though it's not the main focus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 100,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8547619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aleakim/pseuds/peanutbutterjelly-pie
Summary: -
“We've got some lotion that might help your hand,” Castiel offers. “Though I want you to see our doctor as well, Dean.”
The hunter feels himself stiffen and scowls at the man in front of him. “A doctor? I don't need -”
“I beg to differ,” Castiel cuts in, totally unapologetic. “You came into contact with unknown substances. We should check it out. Just in case.”
Dean snorts. “You're not actually my boss, Cas.”
Castiel's expression turns dangerously stern. “I know that very well, Dean. However, within these walls I have a certain authority and you'd be wise not to defy me.”
Dean refuses to shiver in a not entirely unpleasant manner and scolds his own traitorous body for enjoying this.
 
*  *  *  *  *
 
  (As a hunter Dean is, quite begrudgingly, forced to work with the Man of Letters Castiel and he does absolutely not feel some very weird things when he's close to the guy with the piercing blue eyes, the messy hair and the tasteless sweater vests.
  He does not!)
_





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by Bon Jovi's “Shot Through the Heart”
> 
> _

 

“Ugh ...”

Dean grimaces like he never grimaced before in his entire life and barely dares to look down on himself and study his now quite disgusting clothes any closer.

How the fuck did this happen?

How did he end up here of all things?

The day had started so promising with a breakfast worthy of kings in a comparatively nondescript diner next to his motel, a hot waitress flirting quite spectacularly with him during the whole meal and twenty bucks he found on the sidewalk some time later.

So yeah, it had been kinda nice.

Even the bad cell reception and the partially tenacious witness interrogations didn't dampen his mood that much.

But somewhere along the way something went _terribly_ wrong.

And now he's standing here, in an abandoned warehouse, feeling utterly miserable and absolutely gross.

Sure, it's far from the first time he's covered in monster guts – it's part of the job after all –, but this time it feels even more horrible than usual. Liquids he doesn't want to name or even think about too closely are dripping into his ass crack and making him shudder.

He wants to puke.

Desperately.

“Whoa, Winchester, you look awful!”

Dean glares darkly at Garth in front of him who seems unfairly unaffected and way too clean. Hell, his shoes even fucking _shine_ as if he polished them before they set out to the hunt. He looks totally out of place at this dirty scene right next to his _very_ dirty hunter buddy and Dean feels a sudden urge to kill him.

No one would know.

Okay, there would probably be some leeriness and suspicions, but hey, nobody would blame Dean as soon as he would tell the whole story. He's quite sure that a lot of hunters already fantasied about throwing Garth into a black hole more than once. They would completely understand Dean's short loss of temper.

“I hate you!” Dean presses through his teeth, only to close his mouth almost instantly when something horrific tries to pass his lips and reach his tongue.

It seriously appalling enough that even his shoes feel like they're swimming – he doesn't need to _taste_ it as well.

Meanwhile, Garth simply smiles at Dean as if the other man just made a harmless joke. “What happened, man?”

Dean keeps on scowling until Garth finally finds some compassion and common sense somewhere in that complicated brain of his and offers Dean some tissues. It's not much, but at least enough to wipe his face a bit cleaner.

“Our beloved Men of Letters forgot to share some details about our monster friend here,” Dean grumbles and points at the remnants of the former son a bitch they had been hunting for the last week.

The bastard turned out to be quite sneaky and hard to catch, not to mention something Dean never encountered before. At least he couldn't remember ever meeting such an ugly thing before in his life. So of course it had been fairly reasonable to contact the Men of Letters – though Dean did this quite reluctantly – and ask for their advice. In the end it didn't take that long for them to find some answers in their stupidly large library. They gave Dean a name – that he forgot almost immediately since it sounded way too exotic and long – and a way to kill it – a silver blade touched by human blood.

But for some fucking reason they didn't mention that these motherfuckers tend to _explode_ when someone takes their lives!

“Well, maybe they didn't know?” Garth prompts. For a second it seems like he's about to step closer, maybe even pull Dean into one of his famous hugs, but in the last moment he stops himself and starts to fidget awkwardly instead. “I mean, your brother wouldn't skip that sort of information.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, he wouldn't,” he agrees. “But Sammy isn't in headquarters at the moment, so I talked with Cas. And you know how much that guy hates me!”

Dean seriously wouldn't be surprised if Castiel forgot to tell the hunter about the explosion tendencies of their monster buddy on purpose.

He feels his skin crawl only thinking about the tiny hint of a smile on the other man's face Castiel always shows as soon as he spots Dean being irritated and pissed off. The bastard manages to look innocent and smug at the same time, even declared it into some kind of art form, and though he stays consistently polite and celebrates the stick up his ass like the next messiah, there is still than suspicious glint in his eyes.

And yeah, people – especially Sam – constantly tell him he's imagining things and that Castiel is a nice gentleman who doesn't even know how to be a douchebag even if someone would teach him, but Dean can't be fooled.

No, he knows _exactly_ what's going on inside Castiel's head.

And he doesn't like it one bit.

Garth, however, merely rolls his eyes hearing Dean's accusations. “The guy doesn't hate you,” he objects with so much conviction Dean even finds himself believing the idiot for a split-second. “Yeah, he's a bit strange and you two have that really weird thing going on … but I'm certain he likes you just fine.”

There it is _again_!

It must be really nice to see everything through rose-colored glasses.

But right now Dean doesn't have the strength to come up with a heated reply and explain his very complex relationship with Castiel Novak.

The desire to burn his clothes and take a two-hour shower is way stronger.

“Let's just go,” he grunts. The smell is nearly killing him and he's rather sure that he'd indeed start to vomit if he stayed at this place any longer. He would even prefer the decomposed eggs he found once in a fridge of a shady motel and which gave him some unpleasant nightmares later on over the already rotting innards of some hideous monster.

“Don't you think … well, shouldn't we clean up or something?” Garth asks, his eyes roaming over the large hall hesitantly. He doesn't seem exceptionally happy about this notion, but nonetheless he obviously felt some stupid urge to bring it up.

“Go ahead,” Dean grumbles. He begins to head toward the exit and ignores the squishy sound of his shoes as best as manageable. “Get a mop and a bucket and have fun with it! But I ain't helping, I suffered enough.”

Garth pauses, looking back and forth uncertainly, until he finally shrugs nonchalantly and announces, “I'll just burn the building down later.”

Dean blinks confused, wondering if that was meant as a joke or not – you actually never really know with this guy –, but eventually he decides that he doesn't give a flying fuck anyway. It's not like Garth would be able to hurt anyone but himself.

“Let's go,” Dean urges and leaves this goddamned hellhole without a second glance.

Stepping outside and spotting Garth's truck right next to the entrance he suddenly realizes that he's for once very grateful that he left the Impala behind at the motel's parking lot. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he contaminated his Baby in such a disgusting way.

And yeah, he's dripping and stinking and icky – she would have hated him for the next few weeks.

Garth, however, seems to be kinda protective of his car as well and though he doesn't reach Dean's level of devotion (meaning: leaving the dirty guy behind and fighting him to the death if he'd dare to even touch his car for a short moment), he insists on wrapping his filthy friend in several layers of blankets to keep his upholstery somewhat clean. Dean lets himself be manhandled without further complaints and climbs onto the passenger seat with a sour and simultaneously tired expression.

He could really use some sleep.

A shower and sleep.

And maybe a chance to punch Castiel in the face in the near future.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

 

* * * * *

 

Even two days and eight showers later Dean feels like shit.

Sure, from the outside he looks completely clean again and Garth reassured him multiple times that the only thing he could smell was the motel's shampoo and body wash and sometimes a hint of Dean's deodorant (and unfortunately he even pressed his nose into the crook of Dean's neck one time and took a deep breath to make some kind of point), but Dean can't help feeling _wrong_.

It seems like his skin absorbed the monster's goo somehow and now it'll forever be a part of him. Dean finds himself scratching every inch of his body that came in closer contact with the ugly stuff and he starts to look like a serious case of flea infestation.

It's honestly not pretty.

So of course the first thing he does, after they park their cars in the garage of Lebanon headquarters, is heading toward the bunker's library in search of a very specific person.

He ignores Garth calling after him and he _especially_ cold-shoulders Balthazar who greets them with a curly grin and a snarky comment about Dean's manners. Dean doesn't have time for dealing with any of them right now.

No, there is only one person he needs to speak to.

Though it's probably his least favorite of them all.

“You did this on purpose, right?” Dean barks and slams his hand mercilessly on the library's table, startling the man sitting across from him.

Castiel looks up from the book in front of him (and _of course_ he's got his nose stuck inside a book – the guy doesn't seem to do anything else!) and frowns – very convincingly – in confusion.

“What are you talking about?” he asks and somehow his voice got even deeper since the last time Dean spoke with him a few days ago.

How is that even possible?

The guy already sounds as if he's gargling gravel for sports.

“About the monster we've been hunting,” Dean says, gritting his teeth extra loudly. “You know … that really ugly son of a bitch … worm-thing …”

“Olgoi-Khorkhoi?” Castiel helps out.

“Yeah, that one,” Dean grunts, waving his hand in a dismissive manner. “Don't expect me to remember that, it's a fucking mouthful --”

It had been big and wormy and toothy and nothing else mattered anyway.

“People call it the Mongolian death worm,” Castiel continues and Dean already feels a long and detailed lecture coming his way. “The original legend revolves around the Gobi desert and --”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean cuts in. “I don't need a lesson, okay? I just wanna punch you in the face. Or kick your ass.” He tilts his head, contemplating. “Maybe both.”

Castiel furrows his brows and – _damn_ , Dean's gotta admit he looks kinda adorable that way.

That's the most dangerous thing about the guy. He appears so normal with his tasteless sweater vests, the glasses, the messy hair and those eyes Dean refuses to think about too closely because that leads into risky territory. Castiel seems like the living definition of a regular, well-informed, industrious (and – well, admittedly, _hot_ ) librarian.

Only a few people can see behind that facade.

“What did I do to deserve that kind of violence?” Castiel asks, watching Dean intently and it seems like he _indeed_ doesn't have a clue what the hunter is talking about.

Dean, however, learned quite early that Castiel possesses a powerful pokerface.

And he lost a lot of money that night.

“I was covered in _monster_ from top to bottom!” Dean explains through clenched teeth. “And you knew that the annoying motherfucker would explode right into my face, didn't you?”

Understanding dawns on Castiel's face. “Oh, so it honestly did explode?”

And naturally he sounds _fascinated_. As if the entire thing will be an interesting footnote in his next paper.

Fucking bastard.

“So you're not even denying it?” Dean snaps. “Have you any idea how _disgusting_ it was? And the smell --”

“No, I have no idea,” Castiel interjects, his eyes gleaming, eager for as much information as possible. “But I'd love to hear your report.”

Dean is merely seconds away from climbing over the table and strangle Castiel right next to his beloved books. “This isn't some kind of fun, you know that, right? You _knew_ and you didn't tell me --”

Suddenly Castiel's features darken visibly. “You think … I would deliberately withhold information? That I would risk a hunter's life on purpose only because he doesn't know how to say 'please' and 'thank you'?”

Dean pauses.

Castiel sounds hurt.

And that's not the reaction the hunter had been expecting.

“But … you knew.” Dean's voice is less agitated now, even a bit uncertain though he tries his best not to think about it too hard. “You just said so yourself. And when you called me a few days ago, telling me about that worm-thing, you didn't mention the danger of explosion.” Dean licks his lips. “And I was absolutely clueless and didn't look for cover because _who the hell_ would expect such shit?”

Castiel clenches his jaw. There is not that much emotion on his face, but Dean knows the guy long enough to notice even the tiniest muscle twitch. Castiel has never been overly expressive and some people think him a robot with no soul (and yeah, sometimes it really seems that way), but mostly he's just very hard to read. Obviously his mom didn't hug him enough as a child or something.

His _eyes_ , however – they tell a whole different story.

Sometimes it's just a faint glint, nothing spectacular or even remotely noticeable at all, but Dean always has been an expert in recognizing people's moods and admittedly it took some time to figure Castiel out completely (it's actually still a work in progress sometimes), it's comparatively easy now to get a grip on the guy.

And right now Castiel is obviously not amused.

“Oh fuck, don't get angry with _me_!” Dean grits his teeth demonstratively and though he's quite aware that it doesn't have the same effect on Castiel as on other people (since he's a stupid idiot who doesn't know how a freaking threat looks like) it still feels kinda good. “ _I'm_ the freaking victim here, Cas! _I'm_ supposed to be angry!”

Castiel folds his arms in front of his chest and with that teacher outfit of his he looks exactly like Mr. Morris from third grade who constantly wore this specific disappointed expression every time he talked with Dean.

Dean feels his body stiffen. “Did you know that monster might explode?”

Castiel nods immediately. “I knew it could be a possibility. A very rare possibility, but nonetheless.”

“And you didn't mention that small detail on the phone when you told me all about that fucking worm, am I right?”

“Yes, that's right,” Castiel admits without any kind of hesitation. Hell, that bastard doesn't even look guilty.

“So, case closed!” Dean raises a pointed eyebrow. “There is nothing more to add.”

“Actually, there is.”

Dean drops onto the chair right across from Castiel and glares at him challengingly. “Well, go on then.”

“It's true that I didn't tell you about the possible exploding nature of the Olgoi-Khorkhoi,” he confesses. “But not out of spite or in favor of some reckless revenge but because of the simple fact that I didn't know it myself back then. Our knowledge about the Olgoi-Khorkhoi is quite limited at best and it had been very time-consuming to gather as much information as manageable. I had _no idea_ when we talked on the phone, Dean. As I didn't know that they are sensitive to loud noises or that the legends about them attracted by the color yellow are pure nonsense. I only found these information bit by bit and it took me and our whole team several days without much sleep.”

Yeah, _totally_ like Mr. Morris, sitting there and chiding Dean for making rash assumptions.

And it feels as awful as it had felt back then.

Dean is just glad his parents aren't here as well. He can already see his mom smacking his head and saying “Dean!” in that specific voice that always makes him feel like a little kid. It's never pretty.

“I tried to call you again,” Castiel continues and he sounds so freaking calm, as if he were delivering some boring report. “But I couldn't get a hold on you. Obviously the cell reception in town hadn't been very stable.”

Something Dean learned quite quickly when he arrived at that place. His first few phone conversations had been more static than anything else and it took a few tries until a young deputy suggested some spots in and out of town where it might work. So Dean found himself in the end next to a pigpen when he called Castiel.

“So I wrote you both an e-mail,” Castiel explains in that _I-hate-modern-technology-but-it-can-be-useful-occasionally_ -tone. “In there I listed all the things I additionally found since out last contact. And, among other things, the very rare tendency of these creatures to have a rather strong and explosive reaction to their imminent deaths. And since Garth responded to my message, I assumed you would have all the information you needed.”

Dean perks up instantly.

What?

He narrows his eyes, searching for something he isn't quite sure himself what it may be in Castiel's face, before he shouts, “GARTH!!”

It takes two more yells and some utterly heavy curses until the hunter appears at the doorstep. “You called, my lord?” he asks, apparently not at all intimidated by Dean's obvious mood. Instead he munches happily some kind of cookie and looks blissfully.

“Cas just told me he sent you an e-mail,” Dean starts, his voice so dangerous that anyone with a tiny bit of survival instinct would have bolted immediately. Even Castiel pulls back a little although Dean's anger isn't trained on him now. Garth, however, proofs once more that he's either stupid or brave in the face of a serious threat.

“Oh yeah, he did,” Garth responds, smiling contently around his cookie. “It was some info about out wormy friend. I was reading it when we heard about the boy.”

Dean recalls quite vividly how they received the news about a five-year old boy being “attacked by an unidentified animal” over the police radio. He took actions instantly, dragged Garth away from his laptop and didn't waste another minute.

“When they told us that the boy was fine apart from a sprained wrist I suggested that we go back to the motel room because we got some new info,” Garth says. “But you were in your big-bad-hunter-mode and didn't even listen.”

Yeah, that always happens when kids are involved. He suddenly sees red and ignores everything else.

Well, and obviously he ignored some vital information this time.

Dammit.

Apparently in the end the entire mess was his own fault.

“Thank you, Garth,” Castiel eventually jumps in when the two hunters keep on staring at each other, one of them incapable of apologizing despite the circumstances and the other unsure what the hell is even going on, and making the whole thing painfully awkward. “You will find some leftover cake in the fridge if you're interested. And of course you're free to use one of our guestrooms, as usual.”

“Thanks, man,” Garth gleefully replies before he heads toward the kitchen, humming underneath his breath.

Dean watches him leave and finds himself once again wishing that he sometimes would be more like Garth. A bit more carefree, a bit more relaxed. That would definitely be sort of nice.

And it would definitely save him some trouble.

“Dean …” Castiel's voice jerks him out of his train of thought. He closed the book in front of him sometime during their conversation (or rather during Dean's baseless allegations) and that's an utterly clear sign that he doesn't want to dismiss this whole, pointless drama and return his attention back to his beloved texts about werewolf circumcision or cultivation of turnips or whatever he likes to read about day in and day out – no, it indicates he means fucking business and he'd rather _talk_ about it.

“Listen, Cas,” Dean sighs exasperatedly. “If you want me to say I'm sorry – you can suck it! A kid's life was at stake, I couldn't risk kicking my heels.”

Castiel doesn't seem like he was expecting any kind of apology for Dean being concerned about a boy's safety. “I understand your motivation, Dean. I would have done the same.” He folds his – distractingly muscular – arms over his chest. “But nonetheless you should have gone back to your motel when you knew the boy was okay. I already told you on the phone that you should wait for further instructions --”

Dean grimaces. He remembers Castiel becoming all authoritative and bossy. “I don't need _instructions_ ,” he hisses.

Castiel rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Information that can mean the difference between life and death then,” he corrects himself. “You are far too reckless, Dean. I don't want to see you hurt someday only because of your hotheadedness.”

Dean is ready to argue, to make some kind of point, but at the same time he can't be really angry with the guy when he's simply worried about Dean's well-being.

By calling him a mindless fool.

“I won't apologize for doing my job and making sure that kids are safe at home with their parents,” Dean clarifies. “But …”

Castiel scrutinizes him closely. “But?”

Dean starts to fidget uncomfortably. Castiel's gaze has always been sort of super intense and for some reason he obviously never learned that it's not exactly appropriate to stare at someone else that intently for minutes at a time or even hours. Personal boundaries and sometimes even simple human behavior seems to downright mystify him so that Dean occasionally can't help wondering if Castiel maybe belongs to a whole different species.

“But …” he says, taking a deep breath, “it wasn't cool of him to accuse you of – well, you know. It's been kind of a dick move on my part and I'm sorry for that.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Next time I'll check the facts before yelling at you again.”

A small smile appears on Castiel's lips. “I appreciate the gesture.”

Dean waves him off dismissively. “Whatever.”

He rises from his chair and finds himself begrudgingly noticing that he still feels like shit. His skin is itching and driving him outright mad and on top of everything else he falsely accused someone of acting like an asshat. And yeah, Castiel might be a huge and self-righteous douche, but no one deserves to be yelled at for no reason at all.

That's really not cool.

“I have to inform you that the case isn't over yet,” Castiel announces. Usually Dean would have said that he tried to change the subject to escape that weird tension between them as quickly as possible, but Castiel is highly oblivious to any kind of awkwardness and wouldn't even recognize it if it poked him with a stick. “We heard from several cases about monsters from abroad turning up on American ground. It seems that someone is smuggling these creatures over the border for so far unknown reasons. We really need to investigate the matter.”

Dean nods along, not really listening anymore. He feels quite tired all of a sudden.

“Yeah, okay,” he mumbles. “I'll just – need to rest for a second, alright?”

Castiel huffs. “I didn't mean _right now_ anyway,” he objects. “You clearly deserve some rest after that gigantic worm dared to contaminate you with its intestines.”

Dean chuckles quietly. “Yeah, that wasn't any fun,” he agrees, already turning into the direction of his room.

Usually hunters only come to the bunker sporadically and use it at a safe haven for a short amount of time before moving on once again, so the Men of Letter simply allocate them some guestrooms. Only hunters who return regularly, like Dean and a few others, are free to claim one of the many rooms in that large complex for themselves.

And it feels a bit like home, as weird as that may sound. Sure, he could have dealt with it like Bobby and his maternal family – creating some kind of home base on his own and operating his hunts from there –, but since the day Sam decided he'd rather be a Man of Letters than a hunter and moved into the big headquarters in Lebanon, it'd been out of the question for Dean to go anywhere else.

“Dean?” Castiel's voice, surprisingly soft, jerks Dean out of his thoughts. The hunter blinks a few times and realizes that the other man is suddenly standing right in front of him, once again being able to sneak up on him without making any sound whatsoever. It gave Dean almost-heartattacks the first few times until he managed to moderately get used to it.

“Um … yeah?”

“Did you get hurt?” Castiel asks. He sounds a bit clinical, like a doctor wondering where the boo boo is, but once again his eyes are saying so much more. “I know that the legends of these creatures being toxic are false, but still --”

“No, I'm fine,” Dean hurries to reassure. “My skin is just a bit itchy, but --”

Castiel grabs Dean's hand before the hunter is even able to finish his sentence and studies Dean's skin very closely. “It's probably because you took too may showers and let your skin getting raw in the process. Am I fair to assume that you didn't use some kind of body lotion after rubbing yourself off again and again?”

Dean can't help the flush hearing Castiel using words like “rubbing” so seemingly unaffected.

Eventually he manages a “Uh … no” without sounding like a complete fool.

But it's a very close call.

“We've got some lotion that might help you,” Castiel offers. “Though I want you to see our doctor as well, Dean.”

Dean feels himself stiffen and scowl at the man in front of him. “A doctor? I don't need --”

“I beg to differ,” Castiel cuts in, totally unapologetic. “You came into contact with unknown substances. We should check it out. Just in case.”

Dean snorts. “You're not actually my boss, Cas.”

Castiel's expression turns dangerously stern. “I know that very well, Dean. However, within these walls I have a certain authority and you'd be wise not to defy me.”

Dean refuses to shiver in a not entirely unpleasant manner and scolds his own traitorous body for enjoying this.

“Furthermore, it would put my mind at ease and probably Sam's as well,” Castiel says. “Or I could call your mother --”

“ _Damn_ , fuck you for abusing the mom-card,” Dean complains, gritting his teeth. “Okay, fine, let your doctor have his wicked way with me.”

Castiel frowns. “That's not how it works --”

But Dean already turned on his heels and heads toward the bathroom, feeling kinda pleased when he notices Castiel following him after a short pause and mumbling some words underneath his breath which don't exactly sound like singing the praises. Dean wouldn't even be surprised if Castiel used Sumerian or something like Enochian since he always loves to insult the hunter in foreign languages.

“You're a very aggravating man,” Castiel states.

Dean grins brightly. “One of my many charms. You love it.”

Castiel rolls his eyes in a very dramatic way, clearly done with Dean's bullshit, but the hunter can't help noticing that Castiel doesn't deny it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw a post on tumblr about hunter!Dean and MoL!Cas begrudgingly working together and just couldn't help myself – since some time now I wanted to write an “enemies to friends to lovers” fic so freaking badly and when I was struck with inspiration I simply was unable to stop >.<
> 
> So I hope you had some fun with it ^^
> 
> Next chapter will be up in ten days!
> 
>  
> 
> (And if you'd like to know more about the Olgoi-Khorkhoi aka the Mongolian death worm [since I took some big liberties with the legend in my story here] just click [HERE](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mongolian_death_worm))


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I mean, what's the whole deal with you and Cas, huh?”
> 
> _

“I heard you've been a huge and massive dick yesterday.”

Sam's grin is wide and highly inappropriate for barely 6.30 in the morning and Dean just glares at him when he shuffles into the kitchen and is forced to listen to these welcoming words.

“Three weeks,” Dean grumbles, rubbing sleepily at his eyes. “It's been three weeks since we last saw each other and you chose _that_ to celebrate our beautiful reunion?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Oh please. When I went to Stanford we didn't hear from each other far longer than that. Remember those wonderful six Dean-less months 2004?” His face turns into something that almost looks like melancholia. “It had been so freaking long that I even started to miss your stupid face. And the first words you said to me when we saw each other again after all this time? _'Hey Sammy, two important things: First, get a fucking haircut. Second, where's your beer?'_ ”

Dean scoffs. “Two _very_ important things.”

And he certainly won't apologize for that.

Sam smiles his _You-will-never-change-and-I-kinda-like-it-though-I'd-never-say-that-out-loud_ smile and continues to sip his coffee carefully while at the same time balancing a huge newspaper in his hand like it's the 20 th century and he never heard of the internet before.

Dean watches him fondly for a few seconds, once again being thankful for his decision to stay in Lebanon so he can be with his younger brother at least from time to time instead of a few times a year on holidays and birthdays, before he steps toward the kitchen counter and loads several pancakes on a plate.

“Don't take too much,” Sam warns. “Cas and Anna already ate, but Balthazar and Garth aren't up yet. And you know how grumpy they become when there is no breakfast first thing in the morning.”

Yeah, Dean knows that way too well. Balthazar gets cranky and starts to speak in multiple languages all at once while Garth looks like a disappointed kitten with his big eyes and his wobbly bottom lip.

“As a former dentist you'd think Garth would eat something healthier than pancakes and syrup,” Dean mumbles.

Sam nods in acknowledgment. “He's a very weird guy.”

Dean couldn't agree more, but instead of losing himself in a monologue about Garth's strangeness he focuses on his breakfast. Sam leaves him in peace, only glancing at him once or twice, while Dean wolfs down his breakfast as if he hadn't had any decent to eat for days.

And well, there is nothing better than a homemade meal, so it is kinda true.

He stretches his legs, feeling himself relax. Thanks to his wonderful memory foam and the absence of any immediate danger he slept better than in weeks. Back in the day it didn't matter that much – he could even sleep in the Impala for several nights in a row without being afraid of muscle cramps or cricked backs –, but recently he noticed that his body craves for a mattress at the very least. Apparently the times when he napped on the floor and didn't give a damn are officially over and Dean's got no idea how to feel about that.

So he tells himself to train his attention to something else and hears himself saying, “So, has that hunter been around again? You know, that cute lady who always makes you blush like a teenage girl?”

Sam starts to pout. “I don't blush,” he says vehemently while at the same time apparently busy to fight back an intense flush.

Dean smirks. “Well, I can get you a mirror if you want.”

Sam attempts to kick his brother's shin, but Dean's hunter instincts come to life immediately and he gets his legs out of harm's way.

“Don't be angry, Sammy,” Dean teases. “It's kinda adorable, you know? The last time I saw you with Eileen you ran straight into a door frame when she smiled at you.”

Sam ducks his head, obviously keen to hide his embarrassment. “Those two incidents are totally unrelated,” he argues.

Dean laughs aloud. “Sure thing, Sammy.”

But of course Dean knows better. Since the first time Eileen turned up at the bunker Sam can't really help himself around the girl. He gets awkward and flustered and it's kinda nice seeing him this way again after all his relationships before failed, mostly due to his job. He always had dreamed about the white picket fence or whatever, but it's not exactly easy to have some allegedly open and honest connection with a woman while at the same time guarding the most important supernatural secrets on earth. Sure, Sam is not a hunter, so the chances of him being killed in some deserted alley are significantly smaller than Dean's, however, his job can be quite dangerous at times and he operates inside a world regular people have no idea about.

It's a heavy burden and Dean knows that way too well. His only attempt of a somewhat stable relationship had ended with Cassie kicking him out after hearing the truth about his job. It's never been easy.

Most of the time it only works between people who know what the other is up against. Like Mary, descendant of a famous hunter family, and John, the Man of Letters. They never had any secrets (well, at least big ones's – till this day Dean is quite convinced that Dad never once said a word about how the vacuum cleaner really got destroyed ten years ago) and in the end that mattered the most.

So yeah, the thing between Sam and Eileen – and there is definitely a thing, Eileen seems as interested about pursuing something more as Dean's tall, lanky brother – could work out eventually.

“You're a dick, Dean,” Sam grumbles, obviously not happy about Dean's light teasing.

“Oh, c'mon, Sammy! I'm a joy to be around.”

“Are you seriously telling yourself that?”

“Well --”

“I mean, what's the whole deal with you and Cas, huh?”

Dean blinks a few times, looking at his brother in surprise. “Um – what?”

“Why did you behave like an ass yesterday?” Sam folds his massive arms over his chest. “Balthazar told me since you two obviously weren't very subtle. Why do you always need to pick up a fight with him?”

Dean releases a relieved breath. After all the talking about blushing and walking into door jambs he actually thought Sam was insinuating that Dean and Castiel …

Yeah, that's something Dean seriously doesn't need to think about.

“I already said I'm sorry, okay?” Dean grimaces at the reminder. “I jumped to conclusions like the asshole I am and that wasn't alright! And believe me, Cas already used his chance to get some payback.”

Sam lifts an eyebrow and seems quite curious all of sudden. “Yeah? How so?”

Dean pulls a face. “At first he forced me to rub some lotion into my skin that smelled like a whole flower garden. Balthazar had the time of his life.” Dean is pretty sure he never before heard so many creative synonyms for 'princess'. “And then he dragged me to your doctor and told him to examine me _everywhere_. Like seriously _EVERYWHERE_!” Dean tries to suppress a shudder and fails. “The guy poked at places where the sun doesn't shine and that's – that's really horrifying!”

For the first few seconds Sam attempts to stifle a laugh, but somewhere along the way it obviously strikes him that he doesn't need to be polite about this and immediately roars with laughter.

Really fucking loud.

Dean pulls the corners of his mouth downwards while glaring at his brother in clear displeasure. “I hate you,” he grumbles. And for good measures he adds, “And I hate Cas, too.”

Sam wipes at his eyes, chuckling. “No, you don't, Dean.”

Dean scoffs. “Right now I do.”

He takes a big gulp of his coffee in a pathetic attempt to look kinda cool or whatever, but he regrets it almost immediately when the hot liquid burns his throat and makes his eyes water.

Really fucking smooth, Winchester.

“I know you don't like the guy because you got it into your thick head that he 'stole' me all these years ago.” Sam even uses freaking air-quotes like Castiel tends to do and Dean feels his stomach churn uncomfortably at the sight. “But guess what: He didn't force some kind of decision onto me, I did that all by myself. I'm a big boy.”

Dean snorts. Though he's quite aware that Sam honestly has got a point, he can't really help blaming Castiel.

And he knows it's stupid because deep down he's actually kinda relieved that his younger brother chose the way of the Men of Letters, most of the time sitting in some libraries, doing the things he loves and being generally much safer than a hunter could ever be. And yeah, it sucks majorly that Dean needs to work with hunters he doesn't exactly have a connection with like with Sam, but he got used to it over time and the last few months with Garth by his side honestly hadn't been too bad. Admittedly, the guy is all kinds of weird and lanky and clumsy by default, but he's actually a surprisingly capable hunter and a far better company than Dean's hunter cousins who most of the time just scowled and complained.

Sure, Dean would have liked Sam with him all the time, however, he can't really be be mad at his brother for choosing a different path.

But at the same time – irrationally – he isn't exactly happy about it either, so at some point in the past he chose to be angry with Castiel instead since he worked very closely with Sam – and still does – and seemed to have an immense influence on the younger Winchester. It kinda felt like Castiel had been eager to make Sam his best buddy and replace Dean in his role as big brother and role model – so yes, Dean didn't feel the urge to be overly nice to the guy back then.

And although Dean realized over the years that his fear – losing Sam to this big, secret society – had been unfounded, his relationship with Castiel never really improved along this revelation. There is still this tension between them – Dean too much of a stubborn ass to apologize for his stupid behavior in the past and Castiel not the kind of man who is able to just forgive this sort of thing without someone making amends.

So yes, they kinda got stuck and somewhere along the way they forgot that it could be different.

And that will probably never change.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


“Hey, Dean, wanna go out?”

Sam is standing at the doorstep of Dean's bedroom, looking expectantly at his brother who has been lying on his bed and hogging Sam's Netflix account for the better part of the day, just enjoying his free time and the chance to catch up on some of his shows. In the past Dean more often than not felt kinda bad for lazing around, doing absolutely nothing and having a blast, but over the years he got rid off that attitude quite quickly. He's saving people's lives, for Christ's sake, he's allowed to have some leisure time in a while.

Dean takes his eyes off Jessica Jones kicking some ass and blinks at his brother, feeling a bit like waking up from a stupor, before he glances at his phone's watch and notices that the day obviously decided to turn into evening without consulting Dean first.

“If there's gonna be food,” he eventually says. “I'm fucking starving.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but his expression is fond. “It's not like this place isn't filled with food or whatever.”

Dean snorts. “You can't expect me to think about something like that when I'm having my free day, Sammy.”

For a moment it seems like Sam wants to argue some more, using the usual phrases like 'learn to take care of yourself', but in the end he merely sighs and answered, “There will be food, yeah.”

Dean grins triumphantly. “Awesome.”

He grabs his jeans, which he threw into a corner many hours ago in favor of some comfy sweatpants, and makes himself decent enough for a semi-shady bar just outside of town. He even ruffles his hair a bit since you never know if you'll be lucky by any chance while Sam simply grumbles in the background that he should hurry up.

But when they're finally on their way to the garage it's suddenly Sam who stops abruptly.

Dean comes to a halt right next to him, eyeing his brother confused, before he realizes that Sam's attention is trained on a single figure in the library, hunched over a book and totally unaware of his surroundings.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam calls and sound inappropriately cheerful.

Castiel looks up and offers Sam a tentative smile which vanishes immediately when he notices Dean at his side and changes into something wary instead.

“We're going out,” Sam explains. “Wanna come with us?”

Dean shoots him a betrayed look, but Sam simply ignores him, probably knowing way too well that Dean doesn't approve and not giving a flying fuck anyway.

Castiel visibly hesitates. “I don't want to intrude …” he replies, his eyes still on Dean.

“Oh please, you won't,” Sam says good-naturedly. “C'mon, it's gonna be fun. I know you've been down since Claire went back home.”

Dean can't help listening up instantly.

Claire?

He never heard that name before, but it apparently seems to be someone close to Castiel. An old friend? A girlfriend maybe?

Dean's chest tightens suddenly at this thought and he's got no idea how to interpret this odd body reaction.

In the meantime, Castiel sighs deeply. “Well, I am,” he confirms. “I miss her.”

And yet again Dean's stomach is curling up unpleasantly and he needs all his willpower to not pull a face.

“Then come on, man,” Sam urges. “We'll help distracting you.”

For a moment Castiel still seems unsure, but then he starts to nod and even a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Alright.”

And that's how Dean ends up in the car with his brother and the guy he kinda-maybe hates. It should feel weird, highly uncomfortable even, but for some very strange reason Dean finds himself relaxing instead while he navigates the Impala over the rain-soaked roads and listens to his two passengers talking animatedly about some Greek text a few hunters accidentally stumbled upon in a victim's house during a job. They're quite passionate about it, even Castiel who normally can't really forget the stick up his ass, and Dean can't keep himself from smiling slightly.

Very weird.

At the bar Sam immediately orders three beers before he heads right back into the conversation. He makes some kind of effort to include Dean and Dean really appreciates that by nodding at the right time and feigning interest. Years ago he would have been rather jealous of his brother paying more attention to his job and Castiel than Dean who he hadn't seen for some weeks, but Dean learned to deal with the whole thing at some point and be an adult instead of a five-year-old with a tantrum.

He even enjoys it, listening to his brother's rambling like he used to so many times before. It just feels familiar.

Eventually the subjects change and Sam all of a sudden is more than eager to hear about Dean's latest adventures. Dean doesn't even hesitates and gives a full report of his long and excruciating hunt, involving more witness interrogations than he ever thought possible, Garth falling in love with some Bee Gees song that he hummed day in and day out, much to Dean's chagrin, and _finally_ finding that annoying son of a bitch worm-thing (“Olgoi-Khorkhoi,” Castiel corrects immediately) after almost losing hope.

“Why would someone even smuggle something so fucking ugly across the border?” Dean asks, shaking his head in incomprehension.

“Money,” Castiel offers quite bluntly. “There seems to be a thriving market with wealthy customers interested in pursuing rare, supernatural creatures.”

Dean grimaces. “That sounds like the stupidest shit ever.”

Castiel actually seems to agree with him and once again all three of them are lost in a lively conversation that Dean enjoys way more than he ever imagined. Even when he notices a hot woman at the bar counter eyeing him with obvious intent Dean can't really bring himself to move away. No, strangely enough he'd obviously rather talk about disgusting worms and people being stupid enough to buy them.

When Sam eventually excuses himself and walks toward the bathroom a strained silence stretches between Dean and Castiel all of sudden and it seems kinda deafening compared to before.

Dean begins to fidget awkwardly and chides himself for feeling so out of place.

Castiel, however, appears to be perfectly happy to simply stare at Dean way too closely and forget anything he ever learned about social customs and personal space.

And that's _seriously_ not the way to go to make a guy feel relaxed.

So Dean begins to desperately search for some safe and harmless topic and in the end hears himself ask the question that is bugging him for hours now.

“So, who's Claire?”

Castiel blinks a few times, apparently surprised by Dean's interest.

Dean fights a blush that's coming his way and mutters, “Uh, I mean, is she your girlfriend or something? 'Cause, well …”

Dean doesn't really know what he wants to say, so he falls silent eventually before he makes a bigger fool of himself.

In the meantime, Castiel started to smile and that fond expression on his face does something very odd to Dean's system. He doesn't like it one bit.

But when Castiel announces, “Claire is my niece,” Dean releases a breath he doesn't want to interprettoo thoroughly.

Instead he asks, “Really? I didn't know you had a niece.”

“She lives in Illinois with her parents, so unfortunately I don't see her that often,” Castiel explains. “Most of the time I visit them, but this year she insisted on coming here, all by herself. Of course they had to compromise since Claire is still fairly young, but in the end Jimmy and Amelia decided to drop her at my doorstep for two weeks and enjoy some kind of road trip before collecting their daughter once again on their way back.”

Castiel's voice is suddenly very soft and his eyes glint in a way Dean never witnessed before.

“And it worked out?” he asks.

Castiel nods. “I wasn't exactly sure at first since two weeks are a really long time and there isn't that much excitement around here for a young girl, but Claire is quite uncomplicated. Sometimes she spent a whole day just reading books.”

Dean finds himself grinning. “Just like her uncle, huh?”

It's obvious that Castiel is struggling not to smile back. “Well … maybe.”

But suddenly a thought crosses Dean's mind and he frowns. “And the Men of Letters were okay with your niece staying at the bunker?”

Castiel throws him a pointed look. “You think I brought Claire to the bunker full of weapons and cursed objects?” He snorts. “There are guns hidden underneath every single surface. It's seriously not a place for a girl. _At all_.”

Dean couldn't agree more, but he's still confused. “So where …?”

Castiel narrows his eyes and studies him for a moment, apparently determined to read the other man's features. “You are aware that I own a house in town, are you?”

Dean looks at him in bafflement. “Um … no?”

Castiel chuckles at the sight of Dean's face. “Outside, at the lake,” he states. “You might assume that I spend all my time in headquarters – 24/7, as young people fancy to say --, never once seeing the daylight, but I actually crave nature more than anything. I bought the place some time ago since I like to have at least two days every week where I stay away from ancient texts and enjoy the luxury of windows instead.”

Dean relaxes a bit hearing that sarcastic and somewhat cheeky tone back again. “Oh, forgive me for not knowing,” he mocks. “But I didn't get a memo or anything and that kinda hurts, Cas. Wasn't I welcome at the housewarming party? Or did my invite just get lost in the mail?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I bought the place over ten years ago. I didn't even know you back then.”

Over ten years? Damn, Dean _seriously_ didn't have a clue!

Every time he shows up at the bunker Castiel is there, most of the time sitting in the library and reading books older than God or arguing with Balthazar about tea or boring stuff like the stock market. Dean never once assumed that the guy could have a home outside of these immensely warded walls.

“Still.” Dean shrugs and tries not to look as dumbfounded as he actually feels. “It'd have been nice to know nonetheless. What other secrets are you keeping from me, huh? I mean, I didn't even know you had siblings, man.”

“A brother,” Castiel offers. “Claire's father, obviously. You even met him once.”

Dean stares at him incredulously while hurriedly trying to remember if Castiel ever introduced him to some guy who could have been a relative. But he comes up blank.

“I did?”

Castiel nods and he seems highly amused all of a sudden. “Jimmy was visiting me at the bunker at the time when you suddenly burst in, right after a hunt all dirty and bloody, walked up to Jimmy, called him an 'entitled and big-headed jackass with horrible fashion sense' and stormed out immediately after that.”

Dean's eyes widen. “ _What_?” His jaw feels very slack all of a sudden. “But, I wouldn't – why would I--?”

Sure, Dean is honestly not the nicest man on earth, but he would never insult some guy he never met before.

Castiel laughs quietly. “Jimmy and I are identical twins. You seemed to think he was me at the time.”

Dean merely stares at him, not sure how to react to this information, but before he's able to come up with something remotely witty and genius, Sam returns from his bathroom break and drops his giant body onto the poor bar chair right next to Dean.

“Did you know Cas has a niece and a brother that looks exactly like him?” Dean asks, gesturing at the man in question with his arms flying wildly around. “And a house at the lake?”

Sam furrows his brows, studying his brother pensively for a while as if he's solving some complicated equation, before he hesitantly responds, “Um … yes?”

Dean scoffs and looks back and forth between Castiel and Sam, feeling left out once again. It's absolutely stupid, he knows that, since he's actually the one who never made any kind of effort to get to know Castiel better, perfectly happy with how things were, so there is no reason whatsoever to feel snubbed. But he can't stop these inconvenient thoughts racing through his head.

“I never kept these information a secret,” Castiel says, matter-of-fact. “You could have asked anytime.”

But Dean never did. It didn't even cross his mind, if he's being honest.

And that's kinda strange because it's part of the job to know stuff. So it'd have been totally plausible to gather some infos about the guy he works with for so many years now, right? Especially if it's a guy he isn't exactly best buddies with, so he's able to avoid any kind of unpleasant surprise.

It would have been the reasonable thing to do.

But now, contemplating it a bit harder, Dean can't help but think that he maybe refrained from doing so due to some irrational fear that he might have gotten too close and personal with Castiel. That it could have changed his point of view completely.

And that would have been, once again, very dangerous territory.

But instead of acknowledging these facts and making it pretty clear that he's a rude asshole with some major issues, he simply says, “Well, I bet your personal life isn't that exciting anyway. Why should I have bothered to ask you in the first place?”

Castiel seems offended for a millisecond, ready to start an argument, but in the end his lips curl up into a smile that makes Dean feel shivers running down his spine.

“You're as charming as ever, Dean,” Castiel says in that tone which promises nothing good. “But let me tell you that there are a lot of things you don't know about me. Some may surprise you.”

It sounds like a fucking challenge.

And well, Dean never backed off from a challenge.

The game is on.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope you liked it!
> 
> Next update in ten days ;D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dean,” Castiel says, his voice seemingly far away. “You look awful.”
> 
> Dean snorts and is about to reply with a witty, “ _Jeez_ , Cas, you really know how to make a guy feel special!”, but his body disagrees with the plan. Quite strongly, in fact.
> 
> _

Over the course of the next week Dean is quite busy with catching up in Castiel Novak 101.

Unfortunately Castiel is not very inclined to offer some stories after their time in the bar. He merely ignored Dean's attempts for the rest of the night and hasn't really stopped since. Once or twice he dropped some hints – which actually sounded kind of interesting and made Dean hungry for more –, but then he simply smiled and changed the subject, leaving Dean hang in the air.

It's really frustrating.

Of course the rest of the Men of Letters isn't exactly eager to help either after they heard what happened. Sam just rolls his eyes whenever Dean enters a room and Balthazar seems to find huge enjoyment in being a cruel jackass and feeding Dean some information which might or might not be true. Admittedly, Dean's quite sure that Castiel never had any kind of wrestler career or some supporting role in _Dr. Sexy_ (Dean would have noticed _that_ instantly), however, on the other hand the story about Castiel and his brother Jimmy changing their identities with each other so many times at school and even in front of their parents that until this point no one is really certain if in the end they switched back to the right position or not, sounds a bit far-fetched, but nonetheless sorta maybe-true and it's driving Dean insane that he can't tell for sure.

Castiel's personal file isn't giving Dean that much either, only basic information. The only interesting tidbit in there is that Castiel obviously studied in Berkeley and graduated with summa cum laude (no surprise there). But the fact that Castiel is a nerdy nerd isn't really new and doesn't offer Dean even a tiny bit of satisfaction.

Eventually Garth takes some pity on him – or is simply bored out of his mind – and tries to gather some information of his own, but he's as subtle as an oaf about the whole thing and in the end doesn't get anything beside Balthazar's super crazy fairy tales and a hot chocolate from Anna, obviously thinking him and his clumsiness adorable.

So Dean can't be blamed that when he hears about a spirit ripping people to pieces one state over he feels nothing but relief for leaving the bunker behind and getting back into action. Taking his mind off of things. Kicking some ass and burning a ghost extra crispy.

That sounds like heaven after all this bullshit.

So he doesn't even hesitate and grabs Garth by his collar before the hunter even has a chance to finish his morning coffee and yells, “Adios, bitches!”

A bit hunting – that's exactly what he needs.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


The hunt is a bust.

Well, okay, it's not really a bust. It went down fairly normal actually. A haunted house, some locals who refused to speak until the ghost of Amanda Smith – a former housewife who turned crazy one day and killed her family, some neighbors and an huge amount of flowerpots before shooting herself – suddenly appeared in front of them, and a hidden grave that took longer to find than Garth's basic coordination skills.

It wasn't the best job in the world, but it was a job nonetheless.

No, what _really_ turns out to be a bust is Dean's health.

Dean already felt a bit short-winded digging up Amanda's grave, however, he blamed it on the horrible burger he ate a few hours before that and didn't give it much thought. Back in the motel room he noticed an itch in his throat, but fell asleep before he could even realize what this might mean. And when he woke up the next morning with a splitting headache, a nasty cough and the urge to wrap himself into several blankets he knew exactly what was going on.

And so he finds himself in the passenger seat of Garth's truck, drifting in and out of sleep, cursing his weak body, but being glad that he left his Baby back at the bunker at the same time. He probably wouldn't have been able to drive and to allow Garth to take over the wheel or even – if they'd have decided to take two cars – leave her behind in that godforsaken place would have made Dean more sick than he already felt.

Garth isn't any help either. Apparently he's got no clue whatsoever how to deal with an ill person and instead tries to feed Dean some unhealthy snacks and rambles on and on for hours, letting Dean's headache become even worse. At least he doesn't forget to force some fluids into Dean, but he uses some kind of baby voice doing so and Dean never before felt such a strong desire to punch someone in the face like during these instances. Unfortunately he's far too weak to even raise his arm properly and he bemoans this more than anything.

Eventually, after a trip that seemed to have taken longer than the journey there, they reach the bunker and Dean feels utter relief flooding through his system. Sure, just five days ago he couldn't wait to leave the place, but right now he's eager for a comfy bed and some peace and quiet. And maybe some tomato-rice-soup if Sam would find the time (and he probably will since he's as capable to turn into a mother-hen as Dean).

Running on stubborn willpower and some meds he took a while ago Dean manages to stagger into the bunker without any help. He even achieves to open the heavy garage door all on his own and though it feels like the most straining task ever Dean sees it as a success.

“Hey, guys!” Garth calls into the building after appearing right next to Dean and not giving a damn about the other man's headache or eardrums. “We're back! And I've even got a gift for you: A sick puppy!”

Dean glares at Garth. Or attempts to, at least, but his aim is far too off and he's scowling at a trash can instead.

However, the point still stands.

Just a second later he hears a mocking comment from the library and it sounds vaguely like Balthazar's voice, but Dean can't be sure. It feels like someone shoved cotton right into his ears, making it quite hard to distinguish noises. Unfortunately this happened just only about half an hour ago and not when Garth started his constant stream of meaningless babbling this morning.

Someone upstairs obviously hates him.

Suddenly a figure appears right in front of Dean and he needs a moment to recognize the ugly sweater vest and the piercing blue eyes.

“Dean,” Castiel says, his voice seemingly far away. “You look awful.”

Dean snorts and is about to reply with a witty, “ _Jeez_ , Cas, you really know how to make a guy feel special!”, but his body disagrees with the plan. Quite strongly, in fact.

And unfortunately very visually.

Because instead of being fucking suave and cool Dean finds himself bending over and puking colorfullyon Castiel's shoes.

 _Great_.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Dean has no clue how he eventually got into his room.

He remembers voices talking at the same time – some worried, some obviously disgusted – and strong arms grabbing him before he could fall over and smash his face onto the hard floor, but everything after that is a blur.

When he finally opens his eyes it takes an embarrassingly long time for him to realize that he's lying in his bed, buried underneath several warm blankets. Someone obviously made the effort to tuck him in like a freaking child and that makes him feel … well, _something_ at least (he's not sure what exactly since his brain apparently turned into mush at some point, but there are definitely some emotions inside of him, whatever they may be). After a while he even registers that someone changed his clothes and that's one thing he doesn't want to think too hard about.

Instead he focuses on making a check list in his head about his own health (or lack thereof). The headache obviously succumbed to a dull and still very unpleasant pain, his throat and nose seem like they're about to burst into flames or rip him apart, his whole body is burning up, there is nausea rising up as soon as he dares to move a little bit and he feels most definitely a strong urge to kill himself to end his misery.

Yeah, that sounds like the flu.

“Hey, you're awake,” a voice nearby unnecessarily points out. A second later Sam's face appears in Dean's field of vision, his smile wide, though it doesn't reach the eyes. “Thanks for all the excitement, dude.”

Dean wrinkles his forehead. Does his giant of a brother really expect to make sense out of these words? “What?” he asks, his voice almost unbearable croaky.

“I was just minding my own business and talking with Mom on the phone when Garth barged into my room and told me that you fainted in the hallway,” Sam explains.

Dean scowls. “I didn't – _faint_ ,” he's eager to make sure.

Sam snorts. “Well, you were pretty out of it,” he counters. “ _And_ you didn't help at all when we dragged you here, cleaned you up and --”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean cuts in, grimacing when a new wave of pain hits his skull full force.

Sam's expression turns concerned in an instant. “How do you feel?” He sits down on the bedside and pets Dean's hair a bit awkwardly as if he's got no clue what else to do and where it'd be safe to touch without Dean flinching back.

In the meantime, Dean tries to accomplish a decent enough glare. “What do you think, smartass?”

Sam winces. “Okay, stupid question, fair enough.”

Dean would love to argue some more, but he already feels his strength fading once again. He probably won't be lucid for long and he can't exactly say that he's sorry about that. The more he sleeps through this, the better.

“Mom is kinda worried, by the way,” Sam informs him. “I think she was about to pack her bags and rush over here, probably ignoring every speed limit doing so.”

Dean starts to fidget. “Why the hell did you tell Mom?”

He sounds pathetic, he knows that, hoarse and absolutely miserable, but he can't simply leave it be and pick it up at some later point.

“Hey, I just told you that I was talking with her on the phone when Garth found me,” Sam says hastily. “She heard the whole thing. And no mother likes to hear that her son collapsed and then goes back to business as usual.”

Okay, Dean's gotta admit he has a point there. He remembers himself some years ago when he dropped a case after hearing that Sam suffered from a very bad food poisoning. Nothing had been more important than being by his brother's side.

And for a mother this feeling is probably even worse.

“But don't worry, I told her that you're fine,” Sam reassures. “Well, okay, not _fine_ , but in the best hands. Anna examined you half an hour ago and the doctor will be here soon as well. Your fever is a bit high, but manageable right now. However, we'll have to check it quite regularly and you'll probably hate us for that.”

Sam grins, but once again it doesn't seem entirely right. Dean can't help but wonder how bad the whole thing must have looked like for him.

“Anna left some pills for you,” Sam says, pointing at the night drawer. “You could try to take them with some fluids and hope … well, hope that they'll stay inside.”

Dean frowns, confused. “Stay inside?”

“Or maybe just wait for a bit,” Sam continues. “Let your stomach settle a little while. Drink some tea first, maybe even try some broth. I mean, it wouldn't make much sense to take your meds, only for you to, um --”

Dean widens his eyes as realization hits him. “ _Oh shit_ , I puked on Cas' shoes, didn't it?”

He recalls the scenario very fragmentary and he actually thought it had been some kind of horrible nightmare.

Dammit.

“Yeah, you did,” Sam admits and he doesn't seem so sure whether he should look sheepish or fuck it altogether and start to laugh. “But if it makes you feel better, Balthazar thought it was the most amazing thing he'd ever seen.”

Dean pulls a face. “The shoes …”

“Oh, don't worry.” Sam pats his arms hesitantly as if he's afraid to break something. “You know Cas. The guy is totally cool about it. Okay, he'll probably use it against you at some point in this weird game you two are playing, but he'll wait until you'll be better.”

Dean groans and rubs his face in frustration. “ _Shit_ …”

“Or maybe he won't bring it up at all,” Sam offers with a slight smile. “He seemed really worried about you. I doubt he wants to joke about it.”

Dean takes a deep breath, fighting the upcoming nausea. “I'll have to buy him a new pair of shoes, haven't I?”

Sam laughs quietly. “Get better first. Don't think about the rest.”

And when Dean feels his lids droop only a moment later he promises himself that he will do just that.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Being sick freaking sucks.

Dean's immune system is usually pretty strong, so he isn't used to feeling like someone who was run over by a truck or even a fucking high speed train _without_ being stabbed or chewed on by a monster first. It's so much easier to deal with being injured during a hunt because there is always someone to blame and Dean seriously _loves_ blaming supernatural assholes. It's actually one of his most favorites pastimes.

But now?

He can't exactly be angry with anyone but himself for acting careless during flu season or whatever. And that's so not fun!

Thankfully the first few days Dean is way too dazed to think about his situation closely. He drifts in and out of sleep, drinks some fluids (mostly forced on by Sam) and pukes into a bucket once or twice. He even remembers vaguely someone dragging him to the bathtub and scrubbing his sweaty, disgusting body and he _really_ hopes that'd been Sam as well.

But after a few days with more naps than in the last three weeks combined Dean gets kinda restless. He knows he's way too weak to leave the bed for longer – even the trip to the bathroom had been a fucking challenge –, but his brain isn't very happy with that realization. Especially after Dean manages to keep food inside his stomach and his strength starts to return slowly. Still far from enough, however, his hunter instincts don't give a damn.

Lying down all day, nearly helpless – that's hell.

And as expected Sam turns out to be a doting motherfucker and he doesn't appreciate Dean's urge to move at least a little bit. He constantly scowls and chides as soon as Dean even twitches a finger and talks about recuperation time and “taking it easy for a while, jerk”. He even threatens Dean once or twice with calling Mom and asking her to come to Kansas which would have made the whole more unbearable than it already is.

So Dean settles for grudgingly accepting Sam's terror regime for now.

But it's not only his brother who shows their caring (and partly dictatorial sides). Anna seems determined to cheer him up with as many warm and nice smiles as possible, paying him a visit every other hour, most of the time just in passing. Garth, of course, is his sunny and gangly self and brings his sock puppet with him, probably convinced that Dean wouldn't be able to help himself but getting better instantly at the sight of it. Even Balthazar decides to act like a decent human being by visiting Dean one time and afterwards avoiding Dean's room because he knew perfectly well that he wouldn't be able to withhold any more snarky comments.

And Castiel … well, Dean remembers Castiel vaguely by his bedside, his deep voice rumbling, but the memory is kinda hazy and he can't be exactly certain. And he's _particularly_ unsure whether the picture of Castiel tucking him in one time is actually reality or merely a very freaky dream.

However, he recalls quite vividly how Castiel's fingers brushed his sweaty skin a few times, mostly while pushing Dean back into bed and rebuking him for overextending himself, and the touches made Dean feel weirdly warm and tingly.

Most likely due to his sickness.

Since he doesn't want to think about another explanation for his strange body reaction.

Yeah, being sick fucking sucks.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


It's about the fifth day of this stupid illness (at least Dean thinks so, he really lost his sense of time at some point) when Castiel shows up with some food in Dean's room, his face absolutely expressionless as if he's doing errands like this on a daily basis.

He places the tray with the fold-out legs right in front of Dean and says, “Enjoy your meal.”

A delicious smell hits Dean's not-so-stuffy-anymore nose and he can't fight back a small smile. “Thanks, man.”

Castiel simply nods, his face unreadable as ever, before he turns around, obviously ready to leave.

And usually Dean would have let him. He's got no real desire for the guy's company, so he should actually be grateful for Castiel leaving him alone, but the sad truth is that he feels kinda lonely and even Castiel's stoic comments would have been better than this silence around him.

So he hears himself saying, “Wait!” as Castiel is about to step out onto the hallway.

The man stops immediately and looks at Dean. “Yes?”

Dean purses his lips. Lines like _“Will you stay?”_ sound utterly pathetic, so instead he focuses on, “Um … who made the soup? It smells great.”

Castiel squints his eyes and Dean can't help the feeling that the guy knows exactly what's going on inside of Dean's head. But instead of hinting or simply being rudely blunt like he tends to do almost every other time, he comes closer again and answers, “I did.”

Dean raises a brow. “You?”

He'd been aware that Castiel has many talents – reading ridiculously long texts in the blink of an eye, having a better memory than a freaking elephant and knowing the most sophisticated insults ever –, but he'd never seen Castiel work in the kitchen before beside pressing some buttons on the coffeemaker.

“It's an old family recipe,” Castiel explains, seemingly totally unfazed by their conversation. “My mother used to make it for me when I was sick. I thought it would benefit you as well.”

Dean feels something warm pressing within his chest, but he tries his best to ignore the nagging thought of _“He made soup just for you”_ and to be casual instead. He can't afford to get emotional now, especially with his guard down due to all the germs in his system. He seriously wouldn't hear the end of this.

So he plasters a smirk on his lips and says, “So, now all of a sudden you're offering personal information about yourself?”

Castiel scoffs. “My mother making soup is hardly surprising nor thrilling.”

“I'm the judge of that,” Dean replies quite cheerfully before tasting a spoonful of the soup and instantly starting to moan like a freaking porn star who is fucked _real_ _good_. “Shit, this stuff is awesome!”

Castiel flushes rather endearingly, either due to the compliment or Dean's very obscene noises, and presses his lips to a thin line, probably to fight back the urge to answer and maybe say something that would be considered inappropriate in his book.

“So, do I get some more information?” Dean asks, his grin wide. He feels livelier already and he doesn't know if it's the teasing and mocking or if it's just Castiel being here and banish the dullness. “Like, did you have a dog as a kid? What else are you able to cook? At what age did you start to masturbate?”

Castiel blushes some more and it's definitely the most amazing sight since a long time.

“Dean --”

“Aw, c'mon, dude!” Dean urges. “I'm sick and miserable and I could really use some nice distraction.”

Castiel eyes him intently. “You look indeed quite pathetic.”

Dean pulls a face. “Thanks, buddy. I love you, too.”

Castiel chuckles and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “And yet … personal information is just that: _personal_.”

“You complained that I've never asked,” Dean reminds him, nibbling at a slice of bread Castiel brought in with the soup. “Here I am! Asking!”

Castiel's expression turns more serious. “Are you truly interested about my life or is this some kind of game for you?”

Dean is downright certain that the first one is supposed to be the right answer, but he'd never been able to lie Castiel right into the face. Apart from the fact that the guy has a sixth sense and seems to detect even the tiniest untruthfulness, it just never felt right. Castiel is a very honest man and he expects people to give him the same courtesy.

So Dean hears himself responding, “A little bit of both, actually.”

Castiel pauses and studies him intensely, obviously weighing Dean's words. After a long stretch of silence, that started to become very uncomfortable, he offers, “Fair well. I will tell you three things about me, nothing more, nothing less.” He folds his arms. “Choose wisely.”

Dean blinks a few times, feeling a bit surprised. “Damn, you're _really_ pitying me right now, aren't you?”

It's not a pleasant image.

“You look awful, Dean,” Castiel explains as straightforward as ever. “You collapsed, you threw up on my shoes –”

“I'm really sorry for that, by the way.”

“-- you lost your head and insisted on calling me 'huggy bear' –”

“I did?”

“– and obviously you've awoken some maternal instincts inside of me I didn't knew I had, resulting in me wrapping you up in blankets and making you soup.” He points at the tray in front of Dean. “So yes, I will be generous for a change. Don't get used to it.”

Dean's lips curl up into a smile which is far too warm and pleased for his taste. So he hurriedly tries to cover this up by saying, “So, three things? Boy, that's a tough decision.”

And he doesn't trust his weak brain to come up with something decent.

“Just tell me the three most important things _you_ think I should know about you,” he eventually decides.

Castiel doesn't seem at all astonished by these words. He tilts his head, apparently deeply in thought.

“Alright, fine,” he says after a while. “Number one: Twice a week I teach at the local college.”

Yeah, this is, without any doubt, something that Dean _didn't_ know before.

And though it shouldn't actually be that surprising – Castiel is after all the typical teacher type and he's even got the wardrobe for it –, he can't help but gape.

“You do?”

Castiel nods. “I teach occult topics,” he explains. “As you know the Men of Letters try to reach the people with the aid of subtle ways for some time now. Of course I don't stand in front of them and confront with the whole, ugly truth but stay rather hypothetical instead – at least so they think –, however, they are all aware now what to do if they would ever encounter a ghost.” There is even something like a hint of pride in his voice. “Furthermore, it's an excellent method to gain new minds, young and inquisitive, who might be interested in joining the Men of Letters.”

Dean recalls Sam telling him about this before. The society doesn't want to rely exclusively on bloodlines and nepotism.

“And, found someone worthwhile?” Dean asks curiously.

“One of my students, Kevin Tran, seems to be quite promising,” Castiel responds. “Some of his comments and essays are indicating that he knows a bit more about the supernatural world than what you can see in the media these days and that he especially suspects me of knowing more as well. I'm thinking of approaching the subject for some time now.”

Dean takes a few spoonfuls, but refrains from moaning loudly this time around. “You should. Tell him the whole bloody truth and see if he'll stay or run far away.”

Castiel seems to be on the verge of agreeing, maybe even of intensifying the topic and initiating an animated discussion with pros and cons, though in the last second he berates himself and continues instead, “Number two: I'm an expert in several combat techniques.”

That's indeed another thing Dean hadn't been aware of.

He stares at the man in front of him – hair in disarray, a sweater vest with an ugly checked pattern, the glasses – and for a moment he actually doubts Castiel's claim. It seems far more reasonable that the guy is simply messing with him.

But then his eyes start to rove over Castiel's body quite unashamedly and he remembers the many times he noticed the muscular arms and strong thighs and calves, always wondering how a librarian like Castiel managed to stay in such good shape. Dean pictured the guy being a runner – just like Sam crazy enough to wake up at ass o'clock in the morning and torture himself with the cold and harsh temperatures outside – or maybe a swimmer, but him actually learning and mastering martial arts hadn't been on Dean's list of possibilities.

“I could easily 'kick your ass',” Castiel announces with a crooked smile while using air-quotes like the weirdo he is.

Dean can't keep himself from scoffing. “Yeah, right.”

“Don't underestimate me, Dean,” Castiel warns, still amused. “You may be familiar with fighting monsters out on the street the better part of your life, but that doesn't mean you're above anyone else.”

Dean bites his bottom lip. “Punching some bags in a gym is completely different than a dirty fight, Cas.”

Castiel doesn't appear overly impressed by these words. He merely raises his eyebrow and says in a low voice, “For your information, I rather like it rough and dirty.”

Shit!

That's another image Dean doesn't need in his head.

And it once again proves that Castiel is confusing as hell and driving Dean totally crazy. For every rational thinking person this would be considered flirting. And not just the harmless kind but the let's-get-as-sexual-as-possible. But Castiel … he probably doesn't even mean anything by it. For him it's only an easy enough statement without any hidden agenda.

But at the same time there is sometimes a gleam in his eyes, provoking and teasing, as if he knows _exactly_ what he's doing to Dean.

Fucking bastard.

So instead of jumping to the opportunity and losing himself in some kind of argument that Castiel would most likely classify as entertaining and the majority of the human population as wild and very shameless foreplay, Dean simply ignores the comment and asks, “So, what's the third thing?”

A change of topic is just about right.

But then the freaking son of a bitch leans closer and whispers, quite conspiratorially, “I have several tattoos.”

Okay, change of topic _my ass_!

Dean shuts his eyes for a few seconds and fights back a groan.

“ _Seriously_?” he growls. “You thought _that's_ one of the three most important things I should know about you?”

Castiel's following smirk is far too smug for Dean's taste. “Yes, I did.”

“Why?” Dean complains.

He trains his eyes on Castiel's face and it's honestly not an easy task since his brain is desperate to study the other man's body, to _guess_ where the tattoos might be and how the look on this tanned and smooth skin …

 _Dammit, Winchester_!

Castiel, in the meantime, seems to appear quite satisfied with the outcome. “Because you will wonder about them,” he explains, a clear mock in his voice although he'd probably deny it until the end of his days. “Where they are, what they look like, if they have any meaning …”

“You're a big douche, Cas,” Dean states, grinding his teeth.

Castiel simply smirks and raises to his feet. “Enjoy the soup,” he says. “And the next time you'll throw up on my shoes I will tell you another three things.”

Then the bastards actually _winks_ and leaves a reluctantly confused Dean behind.

Damn.

This guy will _most definitely_ be the death of him rather sooner than later.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Till the next chapter :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I will not take you with me on this hunt!” Dean growls, running his hands through his hair to get rid off his horrible bedhead and at the same time trying to look as dignified as possible while only wearing boxers and nothing else. “You're gonna be a fucking liability and I've got no time for this bullshit, do you understand?”
> 
> He feels a bit like a dad putting his foot down and can't help grimacing at the thought.
> 
> Though the image of him grounding Castiel makes the corners of his mouth twitch involuntarily.
> 
> _

“ _Oh no_ , forget it!”

“Dean –”

“Don't 'Dean' me here, Cas! End of discussion!”

“We haven't really started one yet.”

Dean lets out an exasperated huff and crosses his arms in front of his chest, trying to look as intimidating as possible, while he studies Castiel with narrowed eyes.

“There is _no way in hell_ that I'm taking you with me,” he clarifies once again, shaking his head rather dramatically for emphasis. “So please refrain from begging –”

Castiel snorts. “I had not intention to beg.”

“Good.”

“Nonetheless, the situation is quite significant and my presence --”

“Isn't welcome,” Dean cuts in sharply. “You know, in case you forgot: I am a _hunter_ and I'm going on _hunts_ – that means that _you_ , Mr. Nerdy Nerd, will stay here and … well, do your nerdy thing. Whatever.”

Castiel doesn't seem overly happy, but neither is Dean. It's never a great idea to barge into a hunter's bedroom unannounced without knocking and immediately start ranting while said hunter can't do anything but stare like a deer in the headlights, still in his underwear and overall inappropriately underdressed.

And it's a _spectacular_ bad idea to do this because of stupid reasons!

“I will _not_ take you with me on this hunt!” Dean growls, running his hands through his hair to get rid off his horrible bedheadand at the same time trying to look as dignified as possible while only wearing boxers and nothing else. “You're gonna be a fucking liability and I've got no time for this bullshit, do you understand?”

He feels a bit like a dad putting his foot down and can't help grimacing at the thought.

Though the image of him grounding Castiel makes the corners of his mouth twitch involuntarily.

“I'm not intending to get in your way,” Castiel clarifies, his blue eyes more piercing than ever. “But you can benefit from my expertise and _you know it_ , Dean! You're simply too stubborn to acknowledge this fact.”

Dean grinds his teeth and curses the whole fucking situation once again.

It'd been half an hour ago, still sitting at the breakfast table in his bathrobe and enjoying some bacon, when he got the text message from his annoying cousin Christian about some messy witch business. Obviously some witches were found dead in a suburban neighborhood, and the evidence surrounding them – candles, bones and huge sigils, painted on the walls, probably with infant's blood or some similar shit – are indicating that some fucked-up ritual had been taken place or were at least about to.

And when witches and rituals are involved things tend to get ugly.

All the body fluids spilling around.

It's never pretty.

Castiel, however, perked up instantly when he noticed the photos Christian sent simultaneously to the Men of Letters e-mail account. He stared at the different sigils pensively for five minutes straight without twitching a muscle before announcing solemnly that he needed to see it for himself. With his own eyes. Right there on the scene.

And Dean only laughed it off and went to his room to change. Being naive enough to believe that this would be the end of it.

Big mistake.

“Dude, just fuck off already, would you?” Dean complains, pulling a face. “I'm kinda naked here.”

Castiel lifts a brow and pauses, apparently for the first time paying close attention to Dean's state of dress. “You're far from naked,” he eventually concludes, totally unperturbed.

“Yeah, well –”

“And even if you were, I don't see the problem,” Castiel continues. “I don't think you have anything I haven't seen before.”

And to punctuate his assertion he lets his eyes roam over Dean's bare chest and his suddenly way too tight boxers without showing any sign of emotion on his face.

“ _Still_ ,” Dean presses, suppressing a traitorous flush that's fighting to get the upper hand. “There are things like _personal space_ and _boundaries_ …”

“Furthermore, I highly doubt you need to feel ashamed of anything,” Castiel cuts in. “From my point of view it seems that you are above average –”

“ _CAS_!”

Dean stares at him with wide eyes, absolutely horrified, before grabbing the first piece of cloth he can find and pressing it in front of his crotch, in the meantime incapable of fighting back his blush any longer.

Dammit!

Sure, Castiel is right, Dean's usually quite content with his body and doesn't shy away from presenting it, most of the time accompanied by a big smile, but having the guy he kinda-maybe hates (and who also has starred in some very confusing wet dreams) in his room without a proper invitation isn't sure as hell one of these occurrences.

“Get. The. Fuck. OUT!” Dean hisses and only the fact that he needs to protect his junk from any further scrutiny keeps him from grabbing Castiel by the collar and throw him out. “And stop looking at my dick, you bastard!”

Castiel, though, simply crosses his arms in front of his chest and doesn't appear to be willing to follow Dean's command. “No,” he counters. “I won't leave until we sort this out. I can't have you sneaking out like a teenager ignoring curfew.”

The urge to punch this bastard's nose is once again very strong and Dean feels himself taking a step forward, ready for some physical action.

“Put on some clothes,” Castiel orders. “I promise I won't watch.”

And with these words he turns around, looking at the opposite wall and sighing dramatically as if all of this is rather ridiculous.

Dean grimaces and for a second he considers to miss the opportunity in favor of some well-placed slaps. And maybe some kicks too. It would feel good, he's sure of that.

But in the end the desire for some clothes wins. He hastily opens his closet and grabs some fresh jeans, a shirt he knows looks hot as hell on him and some familiar plaid for the last touch.

“I won't take you with me,” Dean states as soon as he feels presentable enough. “There are dead witches and we've got no clue what killed them. Maybe they summoned some fucking monster from the depths of hell or whatever. I can't have you running around and standing in my way.”

Castiel faces him once again, his features a bit softened now. “Your concern is quite touching –”

“It's not concern _for you_ ,” Dean makes himself clear immediately. “I'm more worried about _my_ safety if you're stumbling around like an inexperienced oaf.”

Castiel scoffs. “You have no idea what I'm capable of, do you?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You're a librarian, Cas. Admittedly, a really efficient one, but –”

“You remember me telling you that I'm familiar with several combat techniques?” Castiel grumbles, clearly not pleased with Dean's attitude. “I could pin you to the mat within seconds.”

Dean snorts while ignoring the sexual innuendo Castiel probably isn't even aware of. “Yeah, I bet your the champion at the gym. But this is  _ real life, _ Cas, and there is a chance of a  _ real fight _ –” 

Castiel obviously heard enough. He grabs Dean's wrist, lacking any kind of gentleness, and drags him out of the room down the hall. Dean could have resisted, but he's actually quite curious about Castiel's plans, so he shuts up for a change and lets himself be manhandled. Soon enough he registers that the other man is leading him toward the shooting range.

“So, what?” Dean asks. “You wanna show me what a badass you are?”

Castiel doesn't say a word, simply pushes Dean to the counter with a determined expression on his face. He studies Dean for a moment, apparently looking for something in the hunter's eyes, before he suddenly out of the blue grips Dean's belt and pulls him dangerously close.

Dean's breath catches and he desperately tries to control a blush that threatens to become visible any second now. It's one thing to share a few, harmless words, but to get physical like this ... Dean merely stares at Castiel, unable to form a coherent sentence or even to complain at all, because Castiel's hand on his belt, his fingers brushing Dean's sensitive skin - it doesn't feel as uncomfortable as Dean would have liked.

But  _ of course _ Castiel has got other plans than ripping Dean's clothes off and Dean  _ knows _ that, better than about anything else, however, his body reacts nonetheless and his attempts to get it under control are weak at best. He can't even recall the last time someone gripped him like that, with so much  conviction , and it does something very strange to Dean's system, no matter how hard he tries to suppress it.

Castiel, in the meantime, doesn't seem to give a damn about the other's inner turmoil. Instead his hand wanders under Dean's jacket - and grabs the gun in the holster hidden there.

Totally unapologetically.

And yeah, Dean should have realized this sooner. It's a  _ shooting range _ after all.

But he can't really be blamed when his brain stops working as soon as a hot guy grabs him like this, right? Even if the hot guy is Castiel.

“I know you're a man of action, Dean,” Castiel says, his voice seemingly deeper than usual. “How about I show you some action?”

_ Damn _ , does Castiel really not notice how some of the words out of his mouth sound like?

Sometimes he's like walking and talking porn and he probably doesn't even know that.

Castiel at least doesn't give any kind of sign in that direction when he takes a few steps back (and Dean's traitorous body actually  _ whines _ a bit at that), trains the gun at the paper  silhouette on the other end of the room and shoots.

Three times.

His stance doesn't waver, he doesn't even flinch when the loud noise rips through the air. Instead he looks focused and determined.

Like a fucking hunter ready for a kill.

And Dean seriously hates to admit that because he would have loved to call Castiel a hopeless book-worm and leave him behind, but there is honestly a lot more behind the facade than Dean originally thought.

Damn.

He glances at the shadowy figure on the wall and notices that two bullets went straight through the head and one (Dean flinches) right into the crotch.

Castiel offers him a  crooked smile. “At the last shot I was thinking about you.”

And it's a sad testament to Dean's preposterous dry spell that he finds this a little bit hot.

Jeez, he  _ seriously _ needs to get laid!

Sometime soon.

“I don't need your permission, Dean,” Castiel makes himself clear. “I simply asked you for practical and environmental reasons since sharing a car when we're both heading for the same destination is quite logical. But if you insist on being a stubborn fool I can happily take my own car.”

“Cas –”

“I have no intention to interfere with an actual hunt,” Castiel continues. “I'm aware that the conditions out in the field are not the same than within these walls. And though I fought some supernatural creatures before I don't have your level of experience. But I need to _see_ the actual scene, Dean. With my own eyes. Pictures are only telling half of the story.”

Dean sighs deeply. Castiel is right, he doesn't have any kind of authority to hold him back. It's not like he's the guy's babysitter and if he insists on visiting a crime scene where several witches obviously found their death by performing a dark ritual, so be it.

“Okay, fine,” he concedes eventually. “But don't you dare bitch at me for ignoring the speed limit or whatever.”

 Castiel frowns. “Dean, the speed limit isn't simply a suggestion –”

“There, the magic is already gone!” Dean interjects, shaking his head. “ _Five seconds_ , Cas! Here I am, so generous and noble to carry your sorry across the country, and you've got the audacity –” 

Castiel rolls his eyes and pushes the gun back in Dean's holster, once again avoiding personal space rules. “I'll be ready in twenty minutes,” he says. “I'd advise you to lose your attitude at some point within this time frame, otherwise our little road trip is going to be quite unpleasant. Drink some coffee, maybe pleasure yourself in the shower --”

_“ Jesus Christ_ !”

“– and try to be somewhat nice afterwards,” Castiel continues, completely unfazed. “We'll meet at the car. Don't be late.”

Without further ado he strides out of the room like a king giving an order and not waiting around for some idiot to contradict him.

Yeah, that's going to be an  _ awesome _ trip!

 

*  *  *  *  *

  
  


It turns out as awful as Dean expected.

It begins easily enough with them talking about the case in a civil manner and Dean already hoping that the whole drive won't be so horrible after all, but rather sooner than later the atmosphere in the car gets kinda tense and Dean is suddenly trapped in a whirlwind of different emotional states and he's got no real idea how to deal with it.

There is irritation, of course. _A lot_ of it, actually.

Castiel's got an opinion about fucking everything and he doesn't shy away from voicing them. Especially his dislike of classic rock and his inability to keep these kinds of sacrilegious thoughts for himself gets Dean agitated very quickly. And Castiel's lecture about Dean's choice in “unhealthy road trip snacks which will bring you to your grave faster than you think” aren't exactly helping either.

Then there is the boredom.

Castiel obviously doesn't have a problem with staring out of the window without moving a single muscle for half an hour at a time. And Dean would have been fine with it – fucking thrilled, actually, since it meant that Castiel wasn't annoying him in any way – if Castiel didn't insist on turning down the music beforehand and Dean went through with it because he wasn't in the mood for some exhausting argument.

So for a long period of time the car is completely quiet and Dean hates every second of it.

And then there is this weird and inappropriate state of arousal.

It starts with Castiel planting his hand on Dean's thigh and _keeping it there_ for several minutes like it's the most normal thing in the world while rambling about some ancient text he read the day before and being completely oblivious to the hunter's inner turmoil. Castiel even moves it a bit further up and comes dangerously close to Dean's private parts and it almost ends in Dean having a heart attack and crashing the Impala against a tree.

It's at least a very close call.

Furthermore, there is the incident with Castiel stretching his whole body during a bathroom break at a gas station **,** determined to loosen up his stiff muscles. His shirt rides up as well and reveals a set of quite sharp hipbones and a bit of ink on his skin, most likely a part of one of his tattoos. The sight short-circuits Dean's brain for a minute and even afterwards he's barely able to shake off the image.

Dammit all to hell!

So Dean can't help but sigh in relief when they finally reach their destination, a small town near fucking nowhere, after about endless six hours. He ignores Castiel's chatter about the history of the village (when the fuck did he even find time to look this shit up?) and immediately heads for the nearest motel.

Christian and Gwen are going to meet with them in about an hour and Dean seriously could use a shower and a bunch of fresh clothes before being punished to watch the faces of his judging cousins for longer.

(Okay, granted, Gwen is alright so far, but Dean isn't able to stand Christian's company without making himself kinda comfortable first.)

At the motel's reception he's eager to tell the rather bored looking employee to give him a room with a semi-clean bathroom (he's been in too many motels to hope for more than that), preferably as far away from Castiel as possible, but before he's even able to open his mouth Castiel takes over, places his credit card on the counter and says, “One room with two queens, please.”

Dean feels his stomach drop hearing those words.

 _Seriously_?

He grabs Castiel's arm instantly and leans a bit closer, hoping that the bubblegum-chewing girl wouldn't overhear them. “Are you sure?” he hisses. “Sharing a room, I mean?”

“It saves money,” Castiel explains like he's talking to a child.

Dean grits his teeth. “I _know_ that,” he grouches. “But do you really wanna share a room with me? For days? Maybe even fucking weeks?”

It sounds like a freaking nightmare and Dean isn't actually willing to make it come true.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Castiel counters. “It's quite reasonable. Moreover, I'm not sure the Men of Letters are willed to compensate for two rooms if one is perfectly sufficient.”

“I'll pay for it myself then,” Dean says. He never had a problem with the Men of Letters paying for the expanses during hunts, however, the thought of being in such close quarters with the guy and probably seeing him walking around the room half-naked at some point makes Dean very uncomfortable. He doesn't want to expose himself to this if it can be avoided.

“Am I seriously that appalling?” Castiel asks. He sounds bar any kind of emotions, but there is something gleaming in his eyes that Dean can only describe as hurt and suddenly he feels rather bad about the whole thing.

“No,” Dean hurries to reassure. “It's just … a guy needs his space sometimes …” He shrugs awkwardly. “Garth and I never share a room. And I like him.”

 _Not that I like you, of course,_ is laying on the tip of Dean's tongue, but he doesn't say it.

“Garth is an exception,” Castiel states. “After several hunters threatened to murder him after sharing a room with him for a time the Men of Letters decided to give him a pass to assure his continued survival. We're just making sure he stays alive.” Castiel's face turns dark quite abruptly. “But if you think you'd kill me after a certain amount of time in my company I'm sure we can arrange –”

“Oh, _fuck you_!” Dean cuts in, glaring at the man in front of him. “Don't make me feel like an asshole, alright? You and I both know that we don't get along famously and I just thought a bit space would give us the opportunity to stay professional. That doesn't mean I hate you or find you appalling or whatever …”

Castiel is about to retort – and judging by his face it wouldn't have been a heartfelt and teary apology –, but the clerk clearing her throat makes them both avert their gazes from each other. “If it helps the gentlemen,” she says, obviously seconds away from rolling her eyes in annoyance, “we've got only one double room left anyway. There is a famous, annual market in town and people are going crazy over it.”

Dean feels the need to shoot the girl some daggers for not saying anything sooner, but Castiel simply appears as if he didn't expect anything else. He takes the keys, wishes the receptionist a nice evening and drags Dean towards their room.

As anticipated it looks more or less exactly like all the other motel rooms Dean frequented over the years. Ugly wallpapers, weird and somewhat disturbing pictures everywhere (at least one of them shows a scene that seems as if a elephant and a gigantic rabbit are doing the nasty), stuffy air and questionable stains on way too much surfaces to feel entirely comfortable. It's the American dream, that's for sure.

Castiel, however, doesn't seem fazed by it. He simply throws his bag onto one of the beds and scans the room thoroughly, just like a hunter would do, but with a neutral expression.

“We can make this as painless as possible,” he offers, shooting Dean a glance without meeting his eyes. “There is no need for us to kill each other.”

Dean starts to fidget. “I never said –”

“How about some ground rules?” Castiel interjects. “A great percentage of confrontation is due to lacking or failed communication. Talking about our issues may help resolving or at least lessening the tension that might arise.”

Dean pauses a bit. He never felt good sharing his feelings or whatever, but he's gotta admit that Castiel has a good point there. Of course they won't be cooped up in their room for days or weeks at a time – it's a hunt after all and that usually involves some outdoor activity –, however, normally it doesn't take much time for Castiel to let Dean feel petulantand he can't afford arguing with the guy if he wouldn't have a place to back out.

“Alright then,” he agrees. “What did you have in mind?”

Castiel tilts his head, obviously deeply in thought, and Dean begins to wonder how long “The Top Ten of Dean Winchester's most annoying habits” list is going to be in the end.

“Music or the TV on low volume, at least after a certain time” Castiel starts. “No Thai food because I seriously despise the smell. No towel sharing --”

Dean pulls a face immediately. “Why _the hell_ would I share a towel with you?”

Castiel sighs. “It wouldn't be the first time,” he explains and he actually sounds a bit traumatized by it (and Dean doesn't blame him). “Furthermore, I would really appreciate some warning if you were about to bring over some company, so I don't have to see it or hear it –”

Dean eyes him skeptically. “Are you asking me not to fuck someone right under your nose?”

“It wouldn't be the first time,” Castiel clarifies and there is something deeply miserable in his features.

Dean squints his eyes. “Who would –?” But then he stops when realization hits him. “Balthazar, right?”

Castiel nods. “He is very ...  _ open _ with his affections.”

Sadly enough Dean isn't even surprised by this. A bit disgusted, to be perfectly honest, but seriously not surprised.

“And it hadn't been just one person,” Castiel goes on, shuddering a little as if the memory is quite visible in his mind once again. “So yes, I would appreciate some warning.”

For a moment Dean is about to promise that he won't sleep with anyone on this little trip anyway, so no worries, but he holds himself back in the last second. It'd sound rather pathetic almost confessing that it's been a very long time since someone piqued his interest and the chances of him meeting some guy or lady that would change that are slim to non-existent, especially with a certain Man of Letters always by his side, watching him constantly with these intense blue eyes and driving him crazy in the process.

Yeah, Dean seriously doubts that he'll get lucky anytime soon.

But naturally instead of admitting this he simply nods in agreement and says, “I'll give you a heads-up if I were about to bring a girl or a guy over.” He shrugs and tries for nonchalant. “I wouldn't wanna have you in my way anyway, so don't worry.”

Castiel's face is doing something very weird hearing those words and Dean is incapable of deciphering it, especially after an ten-hour drive.

“I promise I'm gonna be a model roommate,” Dean declares solemnly after Castiel stayed silent for several moments. “I know that I'm an asshole sometimes and not easy to be around, but for your sake – and for mine, as well – I'll try to be less of a dick. We don't have time to rip each other's heads off, right?”

Castiel still keeps quiet, but he nods eventually – though with a lot of unusual delay.“Yes, I agree.”

“And of course I've got some rules of mine too,” Dean announces. “The most important one: Don't stare at my junk! I don't wanna see a repeat performance from this morning, do you hear me?”

Castiel flinches a bit. “I apologize if I made you uncomfortable.”

Dean scoffs at the  _ if,  _ but refrains from giving the man yet another lecture in acceptable human manners. Sometimes it seems like Castiel is an alien or one of the supernatural creatures they encounter on a nearly daily basis – totally blind to what's socially appropriate.

“Yeah, right,” Dean grunts. “I'll just give you a list of ground rules later, how about that? I know you have a boner for everything in written form.”

He doesn't wait for a reply but instead turns toward his duffel bag on the bed next to the bathroom and begins to rummage through it in search for something decent to wear that wouldn't inspire Christian to some unfunny jokes.

“I'll hit the shower,” Dean says. “If my phone rings and Christian's ugly name shows up on the screen, you can pick it up.”

He looks at Castiel for some kind of confirmation and notices that the man is eyeing him with a very strange expression.

Dean frowns. “What is it, Cas?”

Castiel gives a small jerk, obviously so fucking deeply in his mind that he didn't realize what's going on around him. “Um, nothing,” he evades, sounding truly unconvincing.

Dean snorts quite loudly. “Bullshit! What's up? Do I have spinach between my teeth or something?”

Castiel quirks his head to one side. “You didn't eat anything with spinach,” he reminds Dean in a rather serious tone.

The hunter rolls his eyes. “That's just – whatever!” He waves it off, not in the mood for another explanation. “Just tell me.”

For a millisecond Castiel almost looks shy and Dean can't help wondering whether it's a trick of the light, but before he's got time to process the situation Castiel tells him, “You said _ 'guy' _ .”

Dean blinks a few times. “What?”

Castiel avoids his gaze and starts to squirm awkwardly. “You said 'if you were to bring over a girl –  _ or a guy _ '.”

Dean's very tired brain needs several moments to finally grasp Castiel's words. “Um … what about it?”

Castiel bites his lower lip and it's far more distracting that it's supposed to be. “I – wasn't aware that you –”

Dean feels something weird churning in his chest. “It's called bisexuality,” he says, folding his arms in some sort of defensive manner. “You've got a problem with that?”

Despite his many irritating flaws Dean actually never thought Castiel would be a intolerant and prejudiced asshole and he immediately finds his assumption confirmed when Castiel's eyes widen in horror as if the mere idea of him being associated with bigotry would be the worst thing imaginable.

“ _What_? No, of course not!” he hurries to assure, his voice a little bit shaky. “I would _never_ … I couldn't –”

“Yeah, yeah, don't get a panic attack,” Dean cuts in. “I know you are a douche, but not _that_ kind of douche.”

Castiel seems so relieved by Dean's easy acceptance that he doesn't even fight the insult. “I was just … surprised, I guess.” He ducks his head. “I simply didn't know.”

And there is that strange undertone again. As if this revelation is changing his world view in some way and he's got no idea how to deal with that.

Huh. 

Very weird.

But before Dean's able to dig a bit deeper and coax some more answers out of Castiel his phone starts to ring, showing Christian's ugly name on the screen, and Dean is begrudgingly forced to postpone.

For later.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hopefully you had some fun with it :D
> 
> And I hope you had a wonderful Christmas and I wish you all a Happy New Year!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Witches are seriously the worst!
> 
> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the nice comments and kudos so far, you're seriously the best!! :DD
> 
> Have fun with the new chapter!
> 
> _

“You look tired, Winchester.”

As always Christian doesn't waste any time with pleasantries or at least some decent manners when he spots his cousin entering the crime scene, accompanied by Castiel. Dean is quite sure that the guy never said anything remotely nice to him before and he can't imagine this happening anytime soon. The world would rather end, probably.

Dean just grunts in response, not at all in the mood for Christian's weird  _ we-are-family-but-I-don't-like-you _ game he's playing since forever, and  roves his eyes over the scenery instead. It doesn't look like much, just a simple living room in a suburban house, but the thousand candles all over the place and especially the countless sigils in all shapes and colors painted on any surface possible are most definitely uncommon. Dean feels his stomach churn looking at this mess.

He's quite sure that this bright red isn't some paint the witches bought at the hardware store.

Not the mention the small bones he spots in some hidden corner.

Witches are seriously the worst!

Castiel, however, seems like a kid on Christmas. His eyes light up in a way Dean hadn't witnessed many times before and he immediately strides to the closest sigil without sparing a glance in Christian's direction. He caresses the wall like some kind of attentive lover and even sniffs at it a few times, obviously eager to absorb every bit of clue and ignoring the fact that he appears like a weird creep.

“Men of Letters,” Christian mumbles underneath his breath, watching Castiel with a scrunched up nose, once again making it crystal clear that he's not the biggest fan of the society and _especially_ Mary's decision to marry one of them all those years ago. Dean had some intense arguments with him in the past about this topic since he can't honestly stand someone offending his family, even indirectly by a grimace or a twitching eye, and he really hopes Christian isn't in the mood for picking up a fight again right now. He's way too tired to deal with stupidity and ignorance.

“What do you got here?” Dean grumbles in an attempt to direct his attention elsewhere and to distract him from Castiel who is obviously only seconds away from licking the fucking wall.

Christian straightens his back, in full hunter-mode now. “The police found two bodies Tuesday morning, right there next to this specific candle arrangement.” He points at some candles that look like some sort of abstract pentagram. “Both female. Stabbed in the chest. Very efficient job by whoever did it. The witches obviously didn't see it coming.”

Dean frowns. “And we're sure they're witches and not some … sacrifices or whatever?”

Christian looks quite insulted by Dean's lack of faith in his ability to distinguish a supernatural being from a human civilian. “Yes, we are sure,” he states, his voice strained. “Both victims had several characteristic talismans and lucky charms, not to mention some tattoos which link them to a coven further up north. Furthermore, our witch-detection-devices went crazy when we got near them.”

Dean can't help it, he snorts. “Witch-detection-devices? Is that the technical term?”

Christian grits his teeth. “You know as well as I that the Men of Letters tend to give their toys weird ass names no one is able to remember.”

Yeah, Dean can't really argue with that.

“So we've got two dead witches?” Dean summarizes. “Hunters?”

“Well, they didn't consult with the local hunters or the Men of Letters first, but yes, it's a possibility,” Christian agrees.

It's not totally uncommon. Some hunters prefer to work alone, far away from the usual ways. And some are simply new to the whole thing and as unknowing as a toddler figuring out what's the deal with the porcelain chair in the bathroom. Granted, they normally don't succeed in killing two witches at once, but even fools can be lucky sometimes.

“And I didn't particularly call you because of the murdered witches,” Christian continues. “I don't give a crap about them. The less the better. But I don't like the room decoration here, you know? It looks like the worst kind of black magic.”

“It most definitely is,” Castiel says, suddenly appearing right next to them and looking rather unsettled. “I can't say for sure yet what the purpose of this ritual had been, but it'd been powerful magic. Too much for just two witches.”

Dean listens up. “You think there were more?”

“I would say that you need at least five power sources for this ritual to succeed,” Castiel explains. “Maybe even six.”

Dean doesn't like the sound of that at all.

Christian glares at the sigils with the nastiest look possible. “The most important question: _Did_ they succeed?”

Dean feels his stomach jolt. The atmosphere in the room is strangling, uncomfortable, as though the dark magic is still hanging in the air, clogging his throat. He can't sure as hell wait to leave this place behind and maybe advise the local authorities to burn it to the ground and throw at least a ton of rock salt onto it for good measure.

“I'm not sure if these witches went through with the ritual or not,” Castiel admits, looking quite conflicted about the whole thing. Dean suspects that on the one hand his nerd boner is showing big time, delirious because of all those new information he will be able to file in his beloved archive later, and on the other hand he's very aware that the situation is highly serious and he should contain his grin. “But I'm rather certain that there is a link to hell involved.”

 _Of course_ there is.

Dean suppresses a shiver. It's never fun to have to deal with something from hell and he could easily do without.

“What do you mean?” Christian asks, looking about as happy about this mess as Dean. “Were they summoning some hell monster? Or at least trying to?”

“I need to investigate further,” Castiel simply replies.

Dean knows that the guy has at least some suspicions by now, maybe even a few theories that wouldn't sound totally crazy, but Castiel likes to be quite certain about this stuff before opening his mouth and sharing his thoughts. In the beginning it drove Dean mad having to wait for Castiel to go through his books for hours or even days before finally receiving a straight answer, however, Dean learned to appreciate it, especially after he had to work with some other Men of Letter from the East Coast some time ago who deluged him with so many speculations that Dean grew confused and overwhelmed very fast.

“Fine, do your magic,” Christian says, though it sounds more like an insult than anything else and Dean immediately feels the strange urge to defend Castiel and his methods. “In the meantime we should try to find out what the fuck happened here.”

Dean nods along.

Right now all of it seems a bit fishy and he can't seriously tell what's going on. Did these witches really summon a damned demon or whatever who murdered them afterwards? Or did the ritual even take place at all? Perhaps they got into a argument before they even had a chance to begin with their dark voodoo and somehow two of them ended up dead, forcing the remaining witches to run away from the crime scene as fast as possible. At least it wouldn't be the first time that supernatural beings killed each other and Dean honestly prefers this scenario to the picture of some hell monster on the loose.

Because that's seriously the last thing he needs right now.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


“So these sigils aren't anything Cas has ever seen before?” Sam sounds all sorts of surprised when Dean brings him up to speed just barely a few hours after they started their investigation.

“Obviously not,” Dean says, falling onto his uncomfortable motel bed and feeling all the tension drain out of his body. He didn't even realize how tired he had been while interrogating police officers and witnesses, digging through at least hundred pages of reports, listening to Christian's stupid comments about basically anything that didn't agree with him (and that was _a lot_ ) and bemoaning the fact that Gwen left town the day before to chase down some promising lead, so that Dean was forced to deal with Christian all alone.

It seriously hasn't been the best day ever – even his flu a few weeks ago had been far more enjoyable – and Dean can't wait to shut his eyes and forget the whole crap for at least a short while.

Though he couldn't help the urge to hear his brother's voice, even just over the phone.

“That's really odd,” Sam answers, quite pensively. “I mean, Cas is a walking and talking encyclopedia. There hadn't been a a lot of mysteries he didn't solve in the blink of an eye.”

“Yeah, well, even Cas isn't all knowing,” Dean counters, rubbing his eyes and yawning quite unashamedly. “Sometimes even _he_ needs some time to figure shit out. And you should have seen his eyes lighting up at the crime scene – he's seriously turned on by the challenge.”

Sam groans. “Dean!”

“What?” Dean shrugs. “We all know the guy is sexually attracted to dusty books and ancient toys, it's not exactly a secret.”

Sam's following eye-roll is so prominent Dean's even able to _hear_ it over the phone. “You're such a dick, man!”

Dean grins. “Thanks. I'm doing my best.”

He kicks off his shoes and sighs deeply. There is some very weird smell offending his nose, probably coming from the questionable stains on his sheets, but he can't bring himself to care. Sometimes it's seriously a blessing to be far too exhausted to give a fuck.

“Did Cas make any process, at least?” Sam asks eventually.

“How should I know?” Dean replies. “I just came back ten minutes ago. And the guy is showering right now. I certainly won't go in there and ask about his freaking research.”

He looks at the bathroom door and bites his bottom lip.

Dean found their motel room empty when he returned, only books and papers flying around like someone robbed a fucking library, but no Castiel in sight, and Dean paused for a second before he heard some suspicious noises coming from the bathroom – mostly just water runningand a deep and very familiar voice repeatedly cursing the poor water pressure. 

And it could've been kinda hilarious if Dean's quite annoying brain wouldn't have insisted on  imagining the scenario very vividly. He tried to nip it in the bud without any hesitation or even the tiniest bit of mercy, but the picture of Castiel under the shower, naked and wet, had been way too strong for him to suppress.

Yeah, sharing a room with the guy _seriously_ won't be easy!

Sometimes Dean really hates his life.

“So how it is, living with the enemy?” Sam asks, his big grin absolutely audible. He roared with laughter for two minutes straight when Dean told him earlier about their living arrangements, obviously highly delighted by his brother's misery. He didn't even spare one single moment to pity Dean and the delicate situation he's forced to deal with.

Dean grinds his teeth. “How should I know? It's not like I spend the whole day here with Cas or something. I was doing my job. You know, _outside_. _Hunting_.”

Well, granted, it'd been more like handling overworked police officers, useless witnesses and distressed relatives, but Dean refrains from mentioning that.

Sam, however, ignores him completely. “I mean, you and Cas – trapped inside a room! I can't even imagine how that's going to turn out.”

“We won't spend much time together in this motel anyway,” Dean corrects, though he knows he sounds rather pathetic.

Sam snickers. “Even 'not much time' will probably be too much for you!”

Dean pulls a face. Sure, Sam's got a point somewhere in there, but Dean doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him.

“We're both grown-ups,” Dean grumbles, pushing himself into a upright position. “We can be mature about the whole thing. We're freaking professionals after all!”

Sam snorts like he wouldn't believe that even if his life depended on it. “Yeah, right. You're most likely gonna kill each other.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Don't exaggerate.”

Sam laughs again, apparently not believing Dean's attitude. “Unfortunately I'm so busy with that ugly wendigo business in New Hampshire right now, otherwise I'd definitely come with you and record _everything_. It would probably be the most fun I had in years!”

Dean grimaces, wishing more than anything that he'd be able to punch his annoying brother in the face for being an insensitive douche. He always turns into a jackass when it comes to Dean's and Castiel's unique relationship, showing no compassion whatsoever.

“Just shut the fuck up!” Dean orders. “Or I'll tell Mom about Eileen.”

He feels all kinds of pleased with himself when Sam falls quiet after that, most likely frozen on the spot.

“There … there is nothing to tell,” he counters eventually, probably knowing perfectly well that his attempt is weak at best, but nonetheless trying anyway. His cheeks are certainly tinged adorably pink right now, even with no one being around witnessing it, and Dean feels majorly better all of a sudden.

Dean chuckles, once again happy to have found Sam's weak spot. Little brothers are sometimes so easy to manipulate. “Maybe there is seriously nothing to tell,” he concedes. “But I could let Mom be the judge of that. I can already see her sparkling eyes when she starts to ask about your 'special lady friend' and –”

“Alright!” Sam interrupts. “Have fun with Cas, I won't bother you anymore!”

“And?”

Sam sighs. “And you two will most likely get along just fine.”

Dean smirks. “Yes, we will.”

And sure, it's a lie.

A really big one, considering how often and how enthusiastically Dean and Castiel tend to argue with each other about almost anything. But they set up some ground rules and they have a case to solve, so it's not like the whole thing will get absolutely awkward with them just staring at each other and Dean eventually losing it because of Castiel's lack of human manners, leading to them fighting passionately, like their interactions normally use to unfold.

It's gonna be fine.

Or at least moderately okay. With a few setbacks.

But mostly okay.

_ Of course _ in that moment Castiel decides to screw it all to hell by walking out of the bathroom and making Dean realize two very important things.

Number one: Castiel obviously sucks at drying himself off. His skin – all this tanned, perfect skin – is still covered in water droplets and Dean can't help thinking that  _ someone _ honestly should lick them off.

And number two: Castiel apparently has no intentions to hide his tattoos any further. After being so mysterious and smug about his ink before, he didn't bother to put on some damned clothes now. There is only a small towel wrapped around his hips and it leaves nothing to the imagination.

_ Nothing _ .

There is the anti-possession symbol every hunter and Man of Letters keeps close one way or another, right onto his upper arm. Dean is barely able to avert his gaze though he's seen the stupid thing about a hundred times before in so many forms and shapes – as tattoos, necklaces, bracelets, even a quick sharpie drawing once. However, it's somewhat totally different seeing it associated with Castiel and Dean can't for the hell of it determine why it is that way.

It just  _ is _ . 

Then there is another tattoo on Castiel's lower abdomen, right above his left – fairly delicious looking – hipbone. Dean has no freaking idea what it means, but it seems to be a text in an ancient language and it's most likely used as some sort of protection against the supernatural as well. At least Dean very much doubts that it's a recipe for chocolate chip cookies or something.

All he can say is that it fits perfectly with Castiel's skin tone and makes Dean involuntarily lick his lips and regret it almost instantly.

 _Damn_.

The real eye-catcher though are the  _ wings _ on his back!

_ Fucking wings _ !

Dean gets a magnificent view when Castiel turns around to look through the closet. The tattoo's huge and very detailed (Dean notices some tiny symbols, which probably have some deeper meaning as well, cleverly connected with the fine lines of the feathers) and it likely took a lot of sessions and much more pain to finally see it finished. The final result, however, is breathtaking and Castiel obviously decided a long time ago that it was worth it.

And  _ damn _ , it was worth it!

The urge to touch it, to run his fingers over the dark ink, is so fucking strong that Dean needs to bite his bottom lip quite violently to prevent himself from doing something stupid.

What. The. Hell?

It's not the first time he's confronted with some tattoos – fuck, he remembers that chick from New York who was covered from head to toe and Dean had been so busy with looking at her body that he nearly forgot to have sex with her –, but he never had such a strong reaction before. His willpower is almost non-existent and Dean sees himself cracking sooner than later.

He wants to ask so many questions right now – about the history of the tattoo, why he decided to get it in the first place, if it's connected to his angelic name or if he chose it for a different reason, what is the meaning of all the symbols? –, but he can't bring himself to open his mouth. He knows he wouldn't be able to manage anything else than pathetic whimpers and jumbled words which wouldn't make much sense at all.

Yeah, the whole thing will turn completely embarrassing sometime soon.

And the worst part is that Dean isn't sure about Castiel's intentions. Does he even have any? Or is it just the way he is? His usual evening ritual, walking around barely clothed and not giving a damn who might watch?

With anyone else Dean would say they're doing it on purpose. To tease, to taunt. Showing off all these amazing tattoos, bending down to retrieve some clothes from the bag, putting  _ everything _ on fucking display!

But Castiel is a special case, always has been, and Dean has no idea if the guy is even capable of thinking in these terms.

If all of this is intentional – the stretch of Castiel's muscles or the water droplets running downwards, leaving a wet trail behind –

“...ean? _Dean_?”

Sam's voice jerks Dean out of his train of rather dangerous thoughts. The hunter blinks a few times, attempting to shake off the feeling like he'd been caught with the hand in the cookie jar and failing miserably, and hastily ducks his head to hide the probably quite obvious flush on his cheeks.

“Um, yeah?” he eventually mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You're alright?” Sam asks, sounding actually a little worried.

Dean bites his lip. “Yeah, I'm fine. Just got distracted for a minute.”

And then he blushes immediately because he sure as hell knows what that sounds like. He ignores Castiel's piercing eyes staring at him and hopes that the ground would swallow him up.

“Distracted, huh?” Sam snorts. “By a hot girl?”

Dean frowns. “I'm in my room, man.”

“A hot guy then.” It's not a question.

Dean feels his insides clench at the comment. Sure, Sam is very aware that at least physically Castiel is the type of man Dean would love to have in his bed, however, usually he refrains from voicing it. Sometimes there are some smirks and raised eyebrows, but that's mostly it and Dean's grateful for that.

But Sam likely imagines himself safe now because his brother is unable to punch him in the face and decided to give it a go.

Dean makes a mental note to kick him in the ass when he'll return to the bunker.

“Just shut the fuck up and go to sleep!”Dean grumbles, feeling a bit like a petulant child. “It's way past your bedtime!”

Sam scoffs. “Yeah, whatever,” he waves off. “Just keep me updated, jerk!”

He doesn't specify whether he means the case or the Castiel situation and Dean seriously doesn't feel the urge to double-check, so he mutters something that may sound like a solid reply and adds a heartfelt “bitch” for good measures before hanging up as fast as possible.

He's not in the mood for a teasing brother tonight.

He's barely able to collect his thoughts and therefor in quite a vulnerable state. It probably would have been easy for Sam to coax some information out of Dean he usually wouldn't have shared or even vocalized and Dean wouldn't have heard the end of it for weeks, months or even freaking years.

Sam can be very persistent when he wants to.

And Dean honestly doesn't want to be the butt of every second joke because of Castiel and his really wet skin and his lean body and his strong calves and these amazing tattoos that make him look at least ten times hotter and –

 _DAMN_!

An ice-cold shower is obviously necessary.

“Did you find any promising leads?” Castiel asks all of sudden, still annoyingly half-dressed, watching Dean intently.

And the hunter has a hard time making sense of the question because apparently he's a weak human being and only thinks with his dick while simultaneously shutting off any other brain or body functions.

“Um …” Dean flounders, trying desperately to remember what happened the hours before he has been graced with Castiel in all his glory. “Well, we … we identified the other witches.”

It hadn't been very difficult actually. The two victims were known to socialize quite frequently with another four women from their neighborhood and you certainly don't need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out their connection. Their unsuspecting friends and acquaintances even jokingly called them “the witch coven”, not knowing how close they had been to the truth.

Unfortunately – and quite unsurprisingly – the women fled town, probably right after the incident which left two of them dead, leaving confused and upset husbands and families behind. For the police they're the sole prime suspects and Dean can't exactly argue with their logic. It looks more and more like they got into some kind of argument and one or several of them lost their temper.

And Dean isn't really sad about some dead witches. Hell, it'd make his job far more easier if the supernatural scumbags would just start to kill each other all on their own.

But in the end he didn't come here because of the murders but because of the sigils and the ritual that might or might not have taken place.

“Anything about the blood drawing on the walls?” Dean asks after giving his short report, feeling a bit sharper after Castiel _finally_ put on a damned shirt.

Castiel spent the whole day in their room, making phone calls, doing research and probably busting his brain several times. He most likely searched through the whole Men of Letters database and beyond, using every single source he could think of.

He doesn't do things half-assed.

But since he never contacted Dean or Christian during their investigation the hunter honestly doubts that Castiel had some kind of breakthrough.

And by the way Castiel pulls the corners of his mouth downwards and looks like a very frustrated puppy all of a sudden Dean bets he's not that far off with his assumption.

“It's been quite tedious work,” Castiel complains. “It took me at least three hours to identify one single symbol and I will probably need _days_ to get a reasonably clear picture. Whatever these witches decided to play with, it's older and more ancient than our records.” He runs his fingers through his hair, turning it all messy and very distracting. “Right now I've got a search program running Charlie created a few months ago and I hope it'll be successful in narrowing things down. Usually I don't trust computers doing human work, but Charlie assured me several times of its value.”

He points at the laptop on the table next to the small kitchenette and Dean notices for the first time the pictures on the screen are popping up in record speed, showing so many symbols and sigils that Dean feels the beginning of a headache just by looking at it for more than five seconds.

“The program can do its magic while I'm asleep,” Castiel says, still sounding doubtful, but obviously being frustrated enough to give it a shot. And it seriously says a lot that he's taking this step since the guy normally hates modern technology with a fiery passion and rather stays in the library for hours instead of asking google for advice.

Sometimes it's even a miracle that he knows how to use a fucking phone.

He's honestly a weird, dorky, little guy.

“Do you have any plans for tonight?” Castiel abruptly changes the topic, making Dean blink in confusion.

“Uh … what?”

“The movie you recommended a while ago will be shown in a few minutes,” Castiel explains. “The one with the time traveling car.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. He actually didn't think that Castiel even listened to his long summary about the beauty of _“Back to the Future”,_ his eyes glued to the text in front of him the whole time and a few incoherent mumbles the only proof that he had been even aware of Dean's presence after all.

“You wanna watch it?” Dean asks tentatively.

Castiel shrugs. “It sounds interesting. So why not?”

Well, coming from Castiel it's nearly a freaking praise and Dean can't help smirking. “Then go for it!”

“Do you want to join me?” Castiel inquires. “I thought about ordering some pizza as well.”

An awesome movie and takeout? Damn, it sounds like heaven!

“Yeah, I'd love to,” Dean agrees and he can't even bring himself to care that he seems far too enthusiastic about the proposal instead of playing the cool, badass hunter. But hell, he's tired and hungry and Castiel looks kinda adorable with his sweatpants enveloping his feet and Dean doesn't have the strength to keep up pretenses.

At least for tonight.

And when he's gifted with a soft smile and Castiel climbing onto the bed right next to him as if the most normal thing in the world Dean feels quite satisfied with the outcome.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharing space with Castiel is … well, interesting.
> 
> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I'm really sorry it took so long this time, but the last few weeks had been super busy for me :/ And that seriously sucked because I love this story so much and it was torture to not have enough time to write Cas and Dean bickering and subliminally flirting!
> 
> (And then, of course, when I had finally finished the chapter, AO3 decided to be down due to maintenance yesterday – typical ;p)
> 
> But now here it is! And I just wanted to say once again thank you so much for all your lovely comments and support, that seriously means so much to me <33
> 
> _

Sharing space with Castiel is … well, interesting.

Dean actually never really spent longer periods of time in the guy's company. Mostly they bumped into each other in the bunker – either accidentally or because a case forced them to work closer together – and promptly started their routine: glaring, arguing, expressing opinions that the other didn't appreciate and eventually retreating to their private rooms/the library/whatever to prevent any kind of assault or even murder.

Sure, over time Dean caught up a few things here and there since observational skills are quite essential if you wanna survive in the hunting business. Like the way Castiel likes his coffee or how he scrunches up his nose whenever he's engrossed in a book.

But now Dean's beginning to realize that there are so many things he didn't know about Castiel Fucking Novak.

For instance, the man is a _fucking slob_! Dean would never have guessed since he always looks so neat and orderly (apart from the bird's nest on his head) and his freaking books are alphabetized and everything, but beyond that he apparently doesn't really care. He drops his trench coat onto the floor as if he never even heard of a coat rack before, he scatters his toiletries all over the bathroom, he obviously doesn't see any purpose in hanging up a wet towel and leaves it in the shower instead, right in the middle of a puddle so it gets soaked quite efficiently, and he leaves his shoes lying around wherever he wants, not caring that Dean already almost broke his neck several times because tripping over some of Castiel's stuff seems more likely than not.

It's worse than living with a toddler.

Furthermore, Castiel's personal space issues apparently ascendinto unknown dimensions when rooming with another person. He seems to think that all boundaries are annulled and happily goes through Dean's private stuff like it's the most normal thing. Grabbing the hunter's razor, digging through his duffle bag and even borrowing one of Dean's shirts without asking for permission first. And Dean usually would have been pissed – S _o._ _Goddamned. Pissed._ –, but the sight of Castiel in his own clothes gave him a small aneurysm and rendered him speechless for several hours, so he never really got around to complain.

Also it always seems to be too cold for the dude. He closes all the windows, fires up the heating as though they're moments away from freezing to death and turns the whole room into a nearly unbearable tropical zone. And the bastard uses some very effective puppy eyes everytime Dean tries to start an argument, apparently sensing it from a mile away without the hunter even voicing a single word, and Dean finds himself absolutely helpless. It appears he took some lessons from Sam and the fact that Castiel's eyes are probably the most fascinating thing Dean has ever seen isn't exactly helping either.

It's a battle that can't be won.

But thankfully Castiel isn't the roommate from hell all the time. Granted, it's quite challenging and Dean seriously needs some well-earned vacation after this, however, there are a few small moments which make the whole thing almost worth it.

Like the very first morning when Castiel woke him with delicious smelling coffee and some fluffy pancakes from the diner across the street, smiling warmly. Dean was so taken aback by the nice gesture (and especially by the gentle look on Castiel's face) that he was unable to control his blush, feeling like a shy school girl confronted with her crush. And though Castiel mercifully didn't comment on it, it seemed as if he searched expectantly for a similar reaction the next time he surprised the hunter with food.

Moreover, Dean discovered that Castiel likes to touch. Mostly just fleeting moments – a brush of the hand, a gentle shoulder squeeze, fingers trailing lightly over Dean's skin – and Dean desperately tries to recall whether that's a new thing or if he just never noticed before. Granted, Castiel's never been big on personal space and boundaries, but all these faint touches, almost subconscious, but at same time oddly deliberate somehow – they're something different. They leave Dean confused, his stomach fluttering in a weird way he refuses to analyze for the sake of his own sanity, and though he could probably tell Castiel to back off and keep his grabby hands to himself, the mere thought of the guy flinching away from every possible touch doesn't sit very well with Dean.

And yeah, it's kinda nice. There are not many people in his life who do that sort of thing without having a rather specific aim (mainly sex) and it's strangely comforting. Even if that guy is Castiel who agitates Dean on so many levels.

So yes, there are a lot of things Dean wasn't aware before about his roommate. Like the fact that he can be sorta cute – Dean caught him talking to a spider the other day, asking the little fella about his spider life in a totally serious tone, and it'd been so heartbreakingly endearing Dean fled the room immediately before saying something embarrassing –, a new information the hunter never really thought true.

Or that he still doesn't like to wear clothes after taking a shower or has any decency whatsoever when changing for bed, like it's the most normal thing to show off his perfectly shaped ass, only covered by a thin layer, and totally forgetting for that time frame to bitch about the allegedly low temperatures in the room.

The _worst_ , however, are probably his nightly phone calls. Every single evening, at exactly 8 p.m., he drops absolutely everything, even his beloved research, to pick up his phone and call his niece. Obviously it's a tradition that started when Claire had been old enough to understand words and Castiel felt the urge to be close to her although living so far away. It began with telling her bedtime stories, as he happily informed Dean that first night, sometimes well-known fairy tales, sometimes just little stories he made up. Nowadays, with Claire being a teenager, she isn't exactly keen to hear about dragons and princesses anymore, but nonetheless they never even thought about stopping their little ritual. From time to time a simple “Good night” is sufficient enough for both of them and sometimes Claire simply gives a review about her day and the teenage drama in her school while Castiel listens attentively as if there is nothing more interesting.

Dean's sure that Castiel wouldn't even miss one of these phone calls while fighting off some monsters or whatever. It's way too important to him.

So yeah, there is much more to Castiel than meets the eye.

 _So_ much more.

And Dean isn't sure he'll be able to survive this.

  


* * * * *

  


Unfortunately the case turns out to be as frustrating as sharing space with Castiel.

Dean would love to shoot someone's face or at least to kick a few asses, as some form of therapeutic way to deal with the whole situation, but it's been three days and so far _nada_. The fugitive witches stay hidden, even with Dean and Christian sending pictures to all hunters and Men of Letters in the near and distant area, telling them to keep their eyes and ears open, and with every single hour that passes it seems more unlikely they'd find a decent lead.

Usually Dean would call it a day because though he hates to see some enemies slip right through his fingers it wouldn't make much sense to waste your time with a wild goose chase, but the fact that Castiel seems fairly concerned by the ritual and his inability to identify it even after several days of intense research makes Dean pause. It's never a good thing to see a Man of Letter that worried about something.

So they keep digging and working and ignoring their pent-up frustrations as best as possible, hoping against all odds that they will have a breakthrough soon.

Especially Castiel who seems personally insulted by the whole affair. It's quite unusual that he's incapable of finding a decent answer to a problem within a few minutes, hours or at least a day. He's a breathing library about the supernatural and it seems to drive him nuts that he's not much closer to a satisfying solution that the minute they arrived in this godforsaken town.

So it's no wonder that after yet another day of following thin leads that brought them nowhere in the end Dean finds Castiel in their room, sitting in front of the laptop and looking at some ancient text written in a language long dead.

“Dude, did you even move since I walked out of here ten hours ago?” Dean asks, peeling out of his monkey suit with no grace at all. “I swear I left you exactly like this.”

Castiel barely glances at him. “It's been ten hours?”

He doesn't sound surprised or even shocked, but simply like a guy who enjoys gathering information, even the boring ones.

“Did you even _eat_ , man?”

Dean can't help shaking his head in incomprehension and is about to shove a chocolate bar into Castiel's face while simultaneously ordering a few pizzas, Castiel, though, replies instantly, “Of course I ate, Dean. Probably far healthier than you.”

Dean snorts while loosening his stupid tie. “Yeah, yeah, sorry for being concerned about your well-being. It won't happen again.”

Castiel nods. “I appreciate it.”

Dean rolls his eyes and decides to ignore the comment for the sake of peace. Instead he leans over Castiel's shoulder and studies the cryptic letters right in front of him, wondering how any sane person would be able to see some sense in them and not just ridiculous gibberish.

“Don't you get tired of reading in so many different languages?” he asks, shaking his head. “How does your brain still work?”

Castiel shoots him a glance before fixing his eyes back on the text. “It is very stimulating.”

“Ah.” Dean smirks and leans a bit closer. “So it turns you on.”

He can't help breathing the words right into Castiel's ear and feels kinda smug when the other man shudders slightly.

“Dean ...”

The hunter chuckles. “You getting all tingly reading some Latin incarnations?”

“Dean –”

“I get it, man,” the Winchesters says, amused. “A little language kink is perfectly normal and healthy. And all those old school stuff like Enochian and whatever does indeed have some very sexy vibes. I could probably could go off on it too.”

And _now_ he can't help but think of Castiel pinning him down, whispering something in ancient Sumerian onto his skin, sounding all dirty and suggestive, his breath hot and so close, their bodies flush together ...

Dean swallows hard and tries to get his body functions under control because popping a boner right now would be highly embarrassing. Just to be safe he takes a step back, trying to appear as casual and smooth as possible.

“I would advice you to stop talking,” Castiel objects in the meantime, obviously not happy about their topic of discussion.

And well, Dean is so used to contradict the guy that he hears himself saying, “Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

Castiel bites his bottom lip. “Would it make you stop if I'd say yes?”

Dean quirks his head and grins widely. “Oh c'mon, Cas, it's really nothing. Like I said, I honestly get it.” He _seriously_ does. “For example, I met this chick once who switched to French as soon as she was turned on. Like one, big waterfall. And _damn_ , that was sexy as hell, I've gotta tell you! She went absolutely wild, moaning in French the whole time while riding my –”

 _“_ _Dean_ !” Castiel interrupts, more forcefully now. “You _seriously_ should stop talking!”

Dean laughs aloud. “Your face, buddy!” he says, enjoying the look of pain and constipation on Castiel's features. “Tell me one good reason why I should stop my glorious story!”

“I could come up with at least ten,” suddenly another voice says.

Coming out of Castiel's phone that lies next to the laptop on the table.

A _very familiar_ voice.

Dean's eyes grow very big as he stares at the device in shock. “Oh shit!”

“Indeed,” the voice agrees.

And it sounds suspiciously like _his dad_!

What. The. Fucking. Hell?

“Uh, Dad …” Dean says, squirming uncomfortably. That's seriously not the way he expected his evening to go. “What … How …?”

He pauses, not sure what to say, and finally mouths _“Why didn't you tell me?”_ in Castiel's direction, attempting an intimidating glare, though he probably looks way too mortified to fully succeed.

“I tried to stop you several times,” Castiel counters, absolutely unapologetic. “I'm not to blame when you don't listen.”

“He's right, honey,” yet _another voice_ pipes up.

Oh damn!

“ _Mom_?!”

Well, Dean is officially grateful now that Castiel interrupted him on time because that story would have been a far lot filthier a few seconds later. It's bad enough sharing such experiences with your parents (even unintentionally), but he'd been just moments away from happily telling Castiel about his very severe case of cowboy fetish, eager for the guy's reaction to that matter, and that's honestly something you don't need to mention in the company of your parents.

“Well, that's really embarrassing …” Dean mumbles while eyeing the bed and wondering whether it would be too humiliating to hide underneath the sheets.

“No, you're right, Dean, it's quite natural and healthy,” Mary objects, sounding way too chipper. “And it's not actually a surprise that you're having an adventurous sex life. You probably inherited that from your dad who likes to experiment –”

“Oh God, Mom, _stop talking_!” Dean begs, grimacing. That's, without any doubt, the last thing he wants to hear! “Can we just pretend this never happened?”

“I wish I could, son,” John says. “But there are some things you just can't unhear.”

Beneath his gruff baritone there is clear amusement and Dean can almost see the teasing glint in his eyes. He'd probably have been forced to listen to some horrifying stories about intimacy and sex (because John is that kind of asshole who loves to see his kids suffer) if Castiel wouldn't have been next to him.

Though granted, this whole shit wouldn't have happened without Castiel in the picture to begin with, so there is that.

“Why are you even talking with my freaking parents?” Dean hisses at Castiel, leaning closer to the guy and suddenly subconsciously noticing that he obviously changed his shampoo since the day before.

And Dean doesn't want to think about this observation too closely because it's way too dangerous for his mental health.

“They're helping with the case,” Castiel explains, not bothering to lower his voice. “I sent the pictures of the sigils to several of our headquarters all over the country to ask for advice. And John found some promising lead in his personal archive.”

“Just an old book of my dad's,” John mutters as if the whole thing is not a big deal and not worth mentioning anyway.

“It will help a great deal, so thanks again, John,” Castiel says and for a split second there is flickering something like fondness in his eyes, making Dean wonder what the hell is that about. He can't help asking himself how many times Castiel spoke with his parents in the past, forming some kind of connection or even friendship with them, and he never really realized it before.

But before he's able to solve this puzzle and maybe outright ask the men in question, Castiel switches once again into his nerdy mode and starts to discuss the subject with John rather passionately, using his arms and his whole body while going deeper into the topic.

And Dean finds himself smiling slightly, despite the circumstances, because Castiel in his element is definitely a sight to behold.

It was actually one of the first things he noticed about the other man. He recalls quite vividly how he saw Castiel for the very first time, standing at the far end of the library in Lebanon and talking with Balthazar, totally ignoring his surroundings and instead geeking out over some Greek journal like the biggest nerd alive.

And Dean remembers how he stopped in his tracks and just _watched_.

He couldn't help himself at the time. He hadn't seen anything so beautiful for a very long time and he felt enthralled instantly.

Fucking hypnotized.

Of course at some point he actually got to meet Castiel – and the Man of Letters promptly criticized Dean's approach at his latest hunt with a rather strange tone in his voice, a bit like a father disappointed by his son's reckless actions – and Dean decided at this very spot that he'd rather kick the guy's ass than worship it.

(Well, or maybe both.)

(Yeah, definitely both.)

“I think it might have some Etruscan origin,” Castiel's voice jolts him out of his thoughts. He's still talking to John while simultaneously checking the Men of Letters database and joggling ten different open tags, jumping back and forth like a rabbit on a really bad acid trip. It makes Dean dizzy just watching this. “Or maybe something further south. I recall a text about Alexander the Great where –”

And then he yawns and Dean decides to intercept here and now.

“Okay, little guy, I think it's time for a break,” he interrupts, shutting the laptop quite determinedly and making Castiel jerk in the process.

He blinks as though he just woke up from a very intense dream.

“What?” he eventually asks, staring at Dean like he needs a moment to remember who the man right in front of him even is. “But …?”

“No _Buts_!” Dean counters. “You look exhausted, Cas. You need a break!”

“But –”

“It's important to charge your batteries,” the hunter interjects, feeling quite proud of himself when he hears Mary agree over the phone. “I can show you dozens of scientific reports about the importance of rest, if that's what you want.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Why? Because you think it would make me tingly all over?”

Dean snorts and at the same time refuses to blush while listening to his mother's amused chuckling. He'll probably have to live with the teasing for a long time.

“Maybe we should find some French reports, so we both would get something out of it,” Castiel suggests, trying for snappy because of the abrupt interruption, but a little quirk of his lips belies his words somehow. Especially when they both hear John groan, muttering “I really didn't need _that_ mental picture, thank you very much!”, and Dean hastily ducks his head.

Dammit all to hell!

“I hate you so much sometimes,” he growls at Castiel (who seems rather pleased by this declaration) and hurries to yell a quick, “Bye, Mom! Bye,Dad! Love you!” and shuts the phone before the situation has any chance to become any more awkward.

And then he shoots a death glare in Castiel's direction and hopes that his flushed cheeks don't lessen the effect.

Castiel, however, doesn't seem impressed. “Dean, I really have some work to do,” he states. “And I'm close, I can feel it. Don't you wish for some progress?”

Of course Dean does.

Almost more than anything because this stupid case sucks balls and he seriously wants to kill something.

But it wouldn't help them much if Castiel would work himself into the ground and leave a burned out mess behind. No, Dean prefers his Men of Letters awake and healthy and grumpy.

“I need a drink, Cas!” Dean announces. “After you telling my _fucking parents_ about the kinky stuff I'm into –”

“ _You_ did,” Castiel interjects.

“-- I really need copious amounts of alcohol,” the hunter continues. “And you're buying because you damaged my poor, innocent soul.”

Castiel rolls his eyes exasperatedly and refrains from giving any kind of answer. Instead he leaps to his feet and grumbles underneath his breath like it's the worst punishment ever to leave his nerd books behind to grab a drink somewhere.

“You're insufferable, Dean,” he grunts.

The hunter smirks proudly. “Thank you, Cas.”

And as Castiel grinds his teeth and sweeps past Dean with a dramatic sigh, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like a passionate rant in French, the hunter laughs loudly and follows his little dork outside.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean would never say it out loud – or even admit it under the worst torture imaginable –, but Castiel is kinda cute when he's a grumpy little shit.
> 
> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually would have been able to post this yesterday, but I figured after the season finale some of you might need some cheering up!! And I know this small chapter isn't much, but I just wanted to give you a little something :)
> 
> So hopefully you'll have some fun with it ^^
> 
> And thank you once again for all your lovely comments, I'm cherishing every single one <33
> 
> _

Dean would never say it out loud – or even admit it under the worst torture imaginable –, but Castiel is kinda cute when he's a grumpy little shit.

He huffs and puffs the whole way to the bar, shooting daggers at Dean and mumbling underneath his breath like he's plotting the hunter's murder and can't really decide which method would be most painful.

It's glorious.

“Aw, Cas, don't be a sourpuss,” Dean purrs mockingly as he drops onto a chair at one of the tables. It's squeaks and overall doesn't look very trustworthy, but Dean survived worse establishments than this one and he's sure as hell that he'll come out of this one alive as well.

Well, if Castiel doesn't murder him before that, of course.

“I don't understand why we had to come here,” he complains, pouting like a three-year-old who didn't get the last chicken nugget.

“What's so hard to get?” Dean shrugs. “You're exhausted and seriously need a break. You'll miss important details if your brain is too tired to process all the information.”

“No, I _get_ why I need a break,” Castiel counters, leaning forward a bit, but instantly retreats with a grimace when he touches the sticky table. “But why did we need to  visit this den of iniquity?”

Dean snorts. “It's not a brothel, man.”

“It could be,” Castiel objects and Dean honestly can't argue with him on that one, so he simply quirks his head and stays silent. “It would have been perfectly acceptable if we'd stayed at the motel room and ordered some takeout.”

Dean smirks. “Some fresh air is always good.”

Castiel frowns and takes a look around. “The air in here is stuffy and smells like old grease and alcohol.”

“Yeah, but we walked here. Outside. Where the fresh air is.”

Castiel studies Dean as if he's not exactly sure whether he should consider these words as serious or not. “It took us three minutes to get here.”

“Three minutes are better than nothing.”

Castiel heaves a deep sigh, obviously wondering whether it would be good for his mental health to continues this pointless argument any longer. “You're a very aggravating man, Dean.”

The hunter grins brightly. “I'm feeling the love here.”

“But seriously …”

“Ever heard about cabin fever?” Dean interjects. “You basically locked yourself up in that room for the last days and buried yourself underneath all your kinky ancient texts. You needed a change of scenery, man.”

Castiel folds his arms in front of his chest. “And you're the expert on what I need?”

“Yep!” Dean decides cheerfully. “Because you, my dear nerd, don't know how to relax properly. So I'll teach you.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Relax,” he says in a flat tone.

Dean nods. “You honestly need to lose that stick up your ass. Let yourself go for a bit. Drink some booze. Dance. Sing. Get laid.”

Castiel stays quiet while the waitress approaches their table, takes Dean's order, two beers (“For starters,” he clarifies with an amused wink), and leaves a menu behind.

“So you want me to get drunk, behave silly and have intercourse with a complete stranger, am I correct?” Castiel summarizes after a while of pensive silence. Thankfully he doesn't sound absolutely appalled by the idea, but he doesn't seem very enthusiastic either.

Dean shrugs while glancing at the menu. “Well, we don't have to go the full way. Let's start with the booze and see where it gets us.”

Castiel lets his eyes roam over the establishment, obviously considering his options. And it's hard to tell what he's thinking right now, but since he's not running away Dean counts it as some kind of semi-success.

“C'mon, dude, it's not like you don't know how to have fun, right?” Dean grins brightly. “I mean, the wings …”

Castiel perks up at those words. “The wings?”

Dean rolls his eyes because the fucker knows very well what the hunter is talking about. “That badass tattoo on your back,” he nonetheless clarifies and immediately scowls when Castiel's expression turns smug. “Oh, don't look at me like that! You _know_ it's goddamned hardcore!”

Castiel tilts his head. “And because of my wings you think I like to lose myself in alcohol and anonymous sex?” He sounds kinda amused now, even a bit teasing, and he's apparently sort of pleased that Dean noticed the tattoo in the first place.

And the hunter seriously isn't sure what to make of this.

Dean is thankfully saved by their waitress appearing next to them, two beers on her tray. He instantly grabs one of the glasses in one swift move and places it right in front of Castiel, smirking. “Let's just have some fun, Cas!”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Castiel is adamant that he won't drink too much because he can't afford “losing brain cells and having an annoying hangover the next day, not with such an important case on our hands!”

And yeah, Dean really wants to fight with him on that one since a good night at a bar won't risk their whole operation, but he knows it would be futile to even try. And to a certain degree the guy is actually kind of right. Solving mysteries with a killer headache and a strong urge to drown yourself in the toilet might be not that productive after all.

But that doesn't mean they can't enjoy their time.

And for starters that means beer and food. Castiel doesn't seem so keen on the first one (okay, he takes his sips like it's some goddamned duty or something, but every single time he looks like it's a huge sacrifice and there are literally a thousand different things he would rather do), but the cheeseburgers their waitress places in front of them – well, that's apparently a whole different story! Castiel's eyes light up as if it's Christmas Eve and the freaking Beast just offered him a whole fucking library. He immediately digs in without further ado.

And the _sounds_ he makes.

Yeah, Dean's gotta confess he heard his fair share of pornographic noises in the past and he's way past flushing at each groan he might hear, however, seeing Castiel close his eyes in motherfucking ecstasy and moaning like someone right under the table is just giving him the best blowjob of his entire life – it's just too much!

Dean chokes on his food and blushes like a virgin.

 _Damn_!

For way too long he just gapes at Castiel, probably looking like a obvious moron for everyone who notices the dumb look on his face, and he hastily searches for some diversion that would let Castiel miss the hunter's reaction to his enthusiastic response.

Because _shit_ … this mess has got no right to be legal.

“So, okay, tell me the story,” Dean urges hurriedly, waving his arms around in a manner which most likely appears rather ridiculous. “I wanna hear it.”

Castiel squints his eyes. “What story?”

“The tattoo, man!” Dean prompts, his voice shaking a bit. He sincerely hopes that Castiel is way too in love with his food to realize the slip-up. “What's the story behind it?”

Castiel tilts his head, calculating the words in his head, obviously wondering why Dean suddenly wants to hear the history of his body art.

However, eventually he says, “One day I just woke up and thought  _ 'What the hell, why not _ ?'”

Dean snorts, feeling relief rushing through his system for Castiel taking his bait. “Seriously?”

Castiel takes a big gulp of his beer and keeps silent for a while, simply watching two men across the room play pool and ignoring Dean altogether. It doesn't seem like he's very keen on sharing more information than that and usually the hunter would have let him because he's sure as hell not very eager to pry into Castiel's personal life and appear  _ too interested _ , but he can't help biting his lip and staring at the guy in a way that is way too apparent.

“It was an act of rebellion,” Castiel eventually offers, his blue eyes gleaming. “The very first thing I did for myself, against my parent's expectations for me.”

Dean finds himself smirking. “So Mommy and Daddy weren't happy about it?”

Castiel casts him a quick glance which tells Dean more than clearly that this is the understatement of the century. “I grew up in a quite religious family,” Castiel explains. “I guess that's not really surprising, considering that I'm named after an angel. For a long time I did what was expected of me, played their good obedient soldier. School, college. I've only been friends with people they approved of. I'm rather certain they even sort of arranged a possible marriage with one of their friend's daughters, though they never said it out loud. However, it was implied several times.”

Dean feels his gut twist in an unpleasant way and he fights back a grimace that would have given too much away.

“What about the Men of Letters?” he asks instead, trying for nonchalant.

“That was actually the one reason why I broke free from their grasp,” Castiel says, smiling at the memory. “My parents never wanted me involved, but I learned a lot about the organization  **from**  my cousin and I was intrigued instantly. From the very first second I just  _felt_  that it was my calling. I couldn't escape. And I didn't want to either.”

“So you got yourself a badass tattoo,” Dean summarizes, grinning.

Castiel nods in confirmation. “It was coincidence, actually. I simply passed a tattoo parlor and found myself stopping when I read the Name.  _ _ Thursday's Child _ _ .”

Dean frowns. “Like the Bowie song?”

“Castiel is the Angel of Thursday,” Castiel explains in a voice that is almost fond. “I saw it as some kind of sign. So I went inside and scheduled an appointment.”

Dean can see it clear as a day: Castiel stopping in front of the shop, squinting his eyes in that unmistakable way of his right before determination surges trough his whole body, leading his feet right inside the building without even a second of hesitation, like a man on a mission he can't afford to ignore.

“Well, of course it took more than one appointment,” Castiel concedes. “But once I started I was determined to see it to an end. It just felt right.” He takes a small sip of his beer while eyeing Dean with his piercing baby blues. “And the end result proved the whole action worthwhile.”

Dean seriously won't argue with him on that front. He had freaking _dreams_ about that tattoo, for God's sake, and they honestly weren't innocent.

So yeah, it had been definitely worth it.

Just another way for Castiel to torture Dean and drive him into madness.

“So in the end this tattoo represents rebellion and breaking free and finding your own way.” Castiel fold his arms across his chest. “It's got nothing to do with _fun_.”

He uses the last word like it personally offended him while he glares at the hunter in that unique, intense way of his.

“Jeez, Cas, don't get your panties in a twist,” Dean says. “I just meant that your obviously not the uptight librarian you seem to be, that's all.”

Castiel narrows his eyes, apparently not very pleased with Dean's assessment. “Your definition of 'fun' is just vastly different than mine, that's all. I don't need to drink and sing and dance to have a good time.” He pauses for a moment, tilting his head like he's considering his own words in an afterthought, and eventually admits, “Okay, granted, dancing is quite enjoyable.”

Dean barks out a laugh at that. “ _Really_?”

He eyes Castiel skeptically, his stiff posture, and can't really picture him swaying over a dance floor, all elegance and grace.

Castiel, however, counters, “Yes, _really_!”

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “Like, waltzer and salsa and all that stuff? Or more like nodding your head to the rhythm of the music and hope for the best?”

Castiel scoffs and obviously chooses to ignore the hunter's sarcasm. “It's been way too long since I danced the last time. Maybe I should indeed rectify that.”

Dean feels something odd settle in his stomach as the image of Castiel having a beautiful woman in his arms and enjoying himself immensely while moving in swift motions over the dance floor pops up in his head without permission.

So he hastily distracts himself by asking, “Yeah, when was your last time?”

“At my wedding.”

Dean blinks a few times, gaping at the man across from him and trying to make sense out of his words.

Did he really just say … _wedding_?

“Wait … _what_??”

This can't be true, right? Because there is _no way in hell_ that Dean wouldn't know about such a fucking vital information.

Right?

Castiel, though, smashes his hopes right in the next second. “My wedding,” he repeats, beaming like the memory alone makes his life a hundred times better. “My bride insisted on several traditional dances and I couldn't refuse her anything. Still can't, to this day.”

Dean just stares at Castiel in utter shock.

 _FUCK_!

Is this _honestly_ true? Did he _seriously_ have impure and lecherous thoughts about a _married_ man all this time? Staring at his perfect ass, imagining them in countless different positions together while hating his guts at the same time …

Oh God, Dean is _so_ going to hell for this!

“Wh- … Why …?” The hunter tries to order the mess inside his mind. “You … _fucking bastard_!”

Castiel has the freaking audacity to look surprised. “Pardon?”

“Why the fuck didn't you tell me this sooner?” Dean asks angrily. “Don't you think I should maybe know that you're goddamned _married_ , for Christ's sake? Remember that time not long ago when I was on my death bed and you told me the allegedly three most important things about your life?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “You weren't on your death bed, it was just a flu –”

“Not. The. Point!” Dean grumbles. “I've got a right to know, okay? We're … well, co-workers or whatever and … I need to know stuff like that. What if something would happen to you? Who would tell your wife?”

Castiel's expression turns into something Dean is unable to read, no matter how hard he'd try to. “Well, first of all, the Men of Letters would surely notify my next of kin –”

“So, what?” the hunter cuts in. “So then it's unnecessary to mention it to me at some point in the past? That's really not fair. I thought we're … um, not friends per se, but …”

He trails off, not sure what else to add.

In the meantime, Castiel's eyes obviously softened to a degree Dean would almost call fond. “Dean, I'm very sorry. I told the story of my wedding several times by now, the last time at breakfast a few weeks ago. Balthazar joked about it for ten minutes straight.”

Dean frowns. He can't recall that specific incident at all.

“Obviously you hadn't been quite receptive that morning,” Castiel realizes. “I'm sorry, I didn't notice.”

Dean lowers his gaze, feeling his cheeks burn. “Um, yeah …”

“The wedding took place over ten years ago, before we both met for the first time,” Castiel explains. “So I hope I'm forgiven for not inviting you. Though, to be fair, the only guests were teddy bears and dolls.”

Dean wrinkles his forehead.

What?

“Uh …”

“Claire was a very beautiful bride, I can assure you,” Castiel continues, his smile wide and affectionate. “And we danced for hours.”

Dean's brain feels like it's been involved in some sort of car crash. “Uh, Claire?” he asks, confused. “Your … niece?”

Castiel chuckles. “She just went through her wedding phase after watching some Disney movie for the millionth time. She was five years old back then. When I came to visit she asked me to 'marry' her. And like I said, I can't refuse her anything.”

Dean's got honestly no idea how to react to that.

He feels _a lot_ of embarrassment for lashing out over something so sweet and innocent it would make most people puke. Dean just wants to sink deep into the ground for being so dense and stupid to actually _consider_ Castiel could withhold such important information about himself.

In the end Dean goes with a breathy, “Dammit, I nearly had a heart attack,” because he's just way too dumb.

Castiel eyes him closely. “Why would _me_ being married give _you_ a heart attack?”

Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

Dean groans and buries his face in his hands. He's got no answer to that that wouldn't make him flush crimson red.

“Can we … can we just forget the last two minutes happened?” He knows he sounds a tiny bit pathetic, but he can't help it. There is probably some sort of excuse out there that would be plausible enough for Castiel to buy it without questioning it too much, however, Dean's brain is totally blank and he's unable to come up with something moderately believable. “Let's just, I dunno, drink our beers and play some pool or whatever.”

For a second Castiel looks like he's about to nag further, reluctant to let the matter go, and it would be so _him_ to annoy the hunter to death and provoke him until Dean would explode out of either irritation or shame, but in the end he simply makes an indignant noise that sounds like faint agreement.

“Alright, I guess,” Castiel says, a weird undertone in his voice. “Pool it is.”

“Great.” Dean takes a big gulp, eager for some distraction. “You know how to play?”

Castiel quirks his head. “It can't be that difficult. There is a ball and a stick and a table. And math.”

“Math?”

Castiel shrugs. “From my point of view it's all about angles and equations –”

“No, no, no!” Dean hastily cuts in, raising his hands. “Just stop, dude. Don't give me a fucking headache before we even have started.”

Before he can't think better of it he grabs the guy's arm and drags him to his feet, feeling determination rushing through his veins. “I'll teach you how to play some pool!”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


The whole thing is a terrible idea.

So very, very _bad_.

Mainly because Castiel turns out to be touchy-feely when taking lessons.

 _Really_ touchy-feely.

He isn't satisfied with Dean giving elaborate descriptions or even spot-on demonstrations about the right handle of a cue or the perfect stance to make the best shot. No, he wants to _feel_ it.

He wants to feel _everything_.

And Dean is way too weak to bitch about it.

So instead of picking up a fight or at least roll his eyes in an annoyed manner, he finds himself standing too close for comfort, caressing skin that's actually not supposed to be caressed by him and losing his mind in the process.

It's totally horrible.

Torture.

Because he learns so many new things about Castiel he never thought he would be made aware of at some point in his life. Like the fact that the guy actually burns hot, so warm and comfortable that Dean feels himself drawn to it like the moth to the flame. Or that he's ticklish at the elbow. Or that he's got a mole behind his right ear.

Yeah, Dean is _way_ too close.

And there is no escape.

Especially since Castiel is obviously an awful pool player.

Dean honestly thought that he would pick up quickly, as he did so many times before. Usually it takes Castiel a ridiculously short amount of time to grasp new things, but for some reason he's got a problem with pool. Every other minute it's “Dean, am I doing this right?” or “Dean, I think you need to show me this move again.”

And screw it, it's not fucking _rocket science_!

He saw kids barely capable of looking over the table getting the whole concept way quicker than Castiel. It's seriously not that hard and Castiel's memory is way too good to forget the right techniques fifty times in a row.

So either he's honestly the worst player in existence or – and that seems to become a reasonable assumption by every minute – Castiel is just playing him.

But that leaves the question of _why_?

To have a little fun? Frustrate the hunter to no extent as some kind of revenge for dragging Castiel out of their motel room earlier? Is this a sort of punishment?

Because Dean really has to admit, it's _very effective_.

The charged atmosphere between their bodies makes his skin tingle all over and he's simply seconds away from doing something highly embarrassing. He doesn't know _what_ yet, but he's sure as hell that it's going to be awful and stupid and he'll regret it rather passionately till the end of time itself.

His brain functions are almost nonexistent at this point, almost _anything_ could happen.

So he can't really be blamed for finding himself pressed against Castiel's back once again for the millionth time, cursing his weak _everything_.

“Dean?”

And _there_ , that's another problem.

Dean actually thought Castiel would be as unperturbed as ever, not showing any kind of effect while Dean is going through the motions, but instead his freaking voice is so low and husky as though he's barely able to handle the situation as well. It's wavering in a way the hunter never noticed before, especially when Dean gets extra close and the space between them is decreased spectacularly.

Castiel sounds as if the whole thing is affecting him as much as Dean and the Winchester doesn't know how to deal with it.

Is all of this just his imagination? Or is there seriously something happening between them?

What. The. Hell?

“Um … yeah, Cas?” Dean finally manages to answer after being suspiciously quiet for way too long.

“I was wondering …”

Castiel's gaze is fixed on the table, with Dean plastered on his back, his muscles strained as though he's preparing for battle.

And then he turns around and they're suddenly chest to chest.

Dean startles like a deer in the headlights and stares at the man, who is _so fucking close_ now, with big eyes, probably looking like an utter fool in the process. The voices in his head are running wild, yelling at him to step back and get some frigging distance between them, _now_ , but Dean's whole body is frozen on the spot.

All he can do is gape and remember to breath.

(And that's quite challenging considering the fact that they're sharing the same air, with their noses nearly touching each other and everything.)

Dean doesn't know how long they stay like that, simply staring at each other's eyes, motionless, tuning out the people and noises all around them like they don't matter at all. Damn, a freaking monster could burst into the bar right now and rip everyone apart with its huge claws and fangs and Dean wouldn't notice a thing.

Shit, he's seriously screwed!

“I was wondering …” Castiel repeats once again, his voice deeper than any voice ever went before, and it does something very weird to Dean's system.

“Yeah?” the hunter prompts after a while of silence.

Castiel licks his lips and Dean can't help following the movement _way too obviously_. “Maybe we should go back to our room.”

Dean wants to argue out of principle, however, his protest gets stuck when wrapping his head around hearing the words “ _our_ room”.

“Uh … for research?”

Castiel frowns in a way like he never ever heard about such a thing as 'research' before. “Well, actually –”

And then Castiel's phone starts to ring.

 _Of course_.

Dean suppresses a groan and instead _finally_ takes a few steps back, feeling relief and disappointment rushing through his veins and making him dizzy. He ignores the sensation of sudden coldness as good as humanly possible (and by that he means not very good) and clears his throat awkwardly, fumbling with his limbs in a way that doesn't make any sense, but sure as hell makes him appear especially pathetic and uncool.

Castiel studies him for a moment with an unreadable expression, obviously eager to understand the mystery that is Dean Winchester, and completely ignores the blaring phone in his pocket.

Dean squirms uncomfortably at the face of this scrutiny and hastily asks, “Is it Sam?”

Because there is no one as great a cockblocker as his dear little brother.

Not that this moment before between them had been a situation worth of cockblocking, of course. Not at all!

Dean hates himself for even thinking that while feeling a flush creeping up his neck.

“No, it's your father,” Castiel informs him after eventually checking the name on the display. He hesitates for a second, apparently contemplating to send the call to voicemail and leave it with that, but in the end he sighs deeply. “I assume it might be important.”

Considering the fact that John did in fact hear Dean ordering some break from researching about an hour ago and he's honestly not a man to easily disturb another guy's well-earned rest it's most likely a fair assumption to presume something like that.

While Castiel answers the call, Dean hurriedly grabs his beer bottle and downs the rest of the content in one go. He really needs all the alcohol he can get.

Especially when realizing that half of the patrons in the bar are looking in their direction, most of them curious and amused, and Dean can't help blushing fiercely and ducking his head. The girls at the table right next to theirs giggle quietly and a dude half his age actually gives him a thumbs up and a wink.

Obviously Castiel and he put on quite a show for the people around.

Yeah, Dean seriously needs to leave this place. Quickly.

“Really?” Castiel suddenly exclaims in surprise, jerking Dean away from his thoughts. The Man of Letters seems tense and simultaneously excited while listening to whatever John is telling him. “You think there is some Babylonian origin? But nothing indicates –”

Castiel halts, his eyes going wide all of a sudden. “Oh my God, that would mean …Yes, _exactly_ … I know, John … I've never heard of it before, I always thought it's impossible, but – _wow_.”

Dean straightens his back and steps closer again, reminding himself over and over that they're on a _motherfucking case_ and that there might be lives at risk.

“What is it?” Dean demands to know, leaning in to make sure that no one would overhear their conversation.

No other reason at all.

“John found some references to an ancient Babylonian spell that –” Castiel starts, but immediately pauses when looking at Dean's _“speak goddamned English to me, you bastard”_ -face. “It all makes sense now, I don't know why I didn't see it before. Sometimes it's merely a little puzzle piece that's missing and it's driving you _crazy_ –”

“Cas!” Dean cuts in.

Castiel flinches. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “It's just … I'm sure we know now what the witches' spell is meant for. And I'm quite certain they went through with it instead of being interrupted –”

“ _Oh damn_ , those fucking witches raised a hell monster, didn't they?” Dean groans, grimacing.

He seriously doesn't look forward to hunting something like that.

However, Castiel instantly shakes his head. “No, they did not.”

Dean frowns. “So … what the fuck did they do?”

Castiel's gaze becomes even more piercing than before when he announces, “They saved a soul from hell.”

  
  


  
  


 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What do you mean: _A soul_?"
> 
> -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the awesome invention called vacation I was able to wrap this up way faster than I thought ;p I simply couldn't stop writing as soon as I started (probably due to the new character showing up here)!
> 
> I hope you have fun ^^
> 
> _

"What do you mean: _A_ _soul_?"

Dean immediately dragged Castiel into a quiet corner after the revelation, eager to make no one overhear their conversation. Granted, a very enthusiastic and tipsy bachelorette party entered the bar about ten minutes ago and the volume in the room increased significantly since then, making it almost impossible for people to listen in unless they'd stay right next to them, nonetheless Dean doesn't want to take the chance.

"I mean _a soul_ ," Castiel explains patiently. "Everyone has one. Apart from attorneys and bank managers maybe."

Dean rolls his eyes because he seriously doesn't need any sass right now. "And you're saying that these witches -- they _stole_ a soul from hell? Or saved or whatever?"

Castiel nods. "It adds up. As soon as your father mentioned the connection with the Babylonian rituals of resurrection it just became crystal clear. The symbols, the markings."

There is this glint in his eyes again. He's in full-on Men-of-Letters mode, desperate to investigate this issue further, compare at least fifty different texts from several centuries with each other, consult with his colleagues until sleep and rest is just a vague memory and drink ridiculous amounts of coffee.

Yeah, Castiel is obviously quite intrigued by this change of events.

And Dean doesn't know how to feel about that. Part of him is naturally relieved that they're finally taking a step in the right direction with that goddamned case, but another part, a very loud one actually, simply wants to continue their game of pool and see where it'd lead them.

Maybe that's selfish, but Dean doesn't give a fuck.

However, from the way Castiel is squirming like a toddler excited to explore the world Dean simply knows that he has lost. There is no way in hell Castiel would even consider returning to their easy night and just forget what just happened for at least a few hours.

No, their restful evening is officially canceled.

And Dean can't do anything else but go along. "So, why did they do that to begin with? It sounds really risky, from my point of view."

He's not an expert on souls and all that crap, but demons go to a whole lot of trouble to collect as much as possible and Dean can't imagine them being thrilled about someone interfering in their business like that.

"It is," Castiel agrees. "But obviously they figured that their rescue mission was worth it."

Dean lifts an eyebrow. The guy sounds damned sure about the whole thing. "Rescue mission? Who did they save, you think?"

Castiel doesn't need to think for even a second. "Emily Hooters."

Dean's gotta confess that the name rings some kind of bell in his head, but he can't exactly remember how he knows it. "Who?"

"You left some of your files about the witches on the table a few nights ago," Castiel explains. "And when I hit a dead end with my research I figured that a background check of these women might be helpful to understand their motivation and to maybe work out the purpose of the ritual."

There is some prickling in the back of Dean's skull. "Oh, yeah ..." he breaths. "Emily Hooters. She was a friend of our witches, right?"

"Yes," Castiel confirms. "Most likely a witch as well. She died about a week before the incident with the ritual."

Dean tries to recall the words he read a few days ago. "She was killed, wasn't she?"

"According to the police report ripped apart by an unidentified animal," Castiel clarifies. "How does that sound like to you?"

The hunter doesn't need to muse about that for very long. "Hell hounds."

It adds up. Emily apparently sold her soul once upon a time and hell finally showed up to collect its reward. But being in league with some powerful witches Emily most likely tried to evade this at all costs, probably even insuring that she would find a way back if she'd indeed have to take the highway to hell.

"Okay, that Emily chick made a deal, whatever for, and got dragged to hell by these nice little dogs. So her friends meet up to perform this ancient super spell that obviously gives you the power of God and they seriously managed to bring Emily back. Or at least a soul. I mean, we can't exactly be sure if they didn't grab the wrong one by mistake or something." He snorts. "And then ... two of them end up dead?"

Castiel shrugs, sighing deeply. "It's very confusing. Either they had a disagreement or someone from the outside surprised them." His face turns grim. "So, what happened?"

"And _where_ is this _motherfucking soul_?"

" _That_ , my friends, is the most important question right now," suddenly another voice just right next to them answers.

Dean's hunter instincts kick in instantly. He turns around in one swift move and pushes Castiel behind his back, ignoring the man's confused protest completely. His hand automatically shoots to the gun underneath his shirt, ready to draw it within a millisecond if necessary, while he studies the stranger with a scrutiny you have to learn if you want to survive the dangerous hunting life.

The guy, who obviously appeared out of freaking nowhere, looks absolutely normal and the opposite of threatening. Shorter than Dean, a light stubble, a black overcoat, a scotch in his hands and a condescending smirk on his face.

And Dean just feels it deep inside his gut that this man is far from human.

"Sorry for barging in like that," he says, sounding anything but apologetic while eyeing them in a way that makes the hunter very uncomfortable. "But I love me a great entrance, I can't help myself."

Dean narrows his eyes. "Who are you?" he hisses, not giving a damn about being polite.

The stranger, though, does seem to be amused by the hunter's unkind tone. "Excuse me, I forgot my manners for a second there," he says, chuckling. "Name's Crowley. And I'm looking for some of my souls."

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Dean's posture stiffens while every single muscle in his body screams for taking action, for making sure that this _thing_ isn't in the same room as all these innocent people, isn't in the same room as _Castiel_. He promptly scans the area, wondering what kind of exit would give them the least attention, and grabs the  handle of his gun.

It wouldn't be the wisest move to draw the damned thing, but he's still got his fake FBI badge with him and at least enough excuses up his sleeve to avoid too much trouble.

And maybe he wouldn't hurt this monster very badly, but it would feel really fucking good. This case had been _way too long_ without him being able to shoot someone in the face!

It's about time!

“Crowley?” Castiel suddenly pipes in. “As in _the_ Crowley?”

The other man grins proudly. “The one and only.”

Dean dares to glance backwards for a second and study Castiel's expression. The Man of Letters seems to be tense and intrigued at the same time, obviously unsure which reaction would be most appropriate in their situation.

“You know him?” Dean asks while making sure to keep this Crowley dude always in his line of sight. He doesn't appear especially dangerous right now, only looking smug and sipping his scotch, but Dean is in this business long enough to know that you can't solely trust your eyes.

“Well, I've heard of him,” Castiel explains, leaning a bit closer to the hunter. “He's the King of the Crossroads.”

Dean rises his brows. “King of –?” It only takes a millisecond for Castiel's words to reach his brain. “ _Oh_ _fucking hell_!”

Of course.

 _Of course_ that lawyer guy is a goddamned demon!

How could it have been anything else?

Dean had dealt with demons in the past before, but usually not inside a crowded bar and most of the time with at least nearly controlled circumstances and a lot of backup. In a situation like this every force is being used – demon traps, various different exorcisms and spells, all performed and prepared by a fuckload of hunters and Men of Letters because no one working in the supernatural business would treat these kinds of hell monsters even remotely lightly. As soon as someone discovers even the smallest hint that a demon might be involved in shady actions, the whole cavalry is being called.

And that's quite a good thing since demons are some very tenacious bastards and it's normally really hard to get rid off them.

Dean's first instinct is to grab Castiel and just run for it because there is no way in freaking hell he'd be able to stand up to a demon with only some bullets and a fuck-you-very-much attitude. The most urgent thought in his mind right now is bringing Castiel to safety, making sure no harm would come to him. Getting as much distance between him and this sonuvabitch as possible.

There is barely anything else Dean can think of right now.

However, Castiel doesn't seem inclined to try out for some escape. On the contrary, he steps out of Dean's shadow, almost looking a little annoyed that the hunter even dared to try to shield him from the dangerous creature right in front of them in the first place, and says, absolutely bluntly, “Are you here to kill us?”

Dean finds himself staring at him incredulously for a second before gripping the guy's wrist and pulling him closer. “Are you out of your mind?” he hisses into Castiel's ear, ignoring the way a bit of the man's hair is tickling his nose.

Castiel scoffs. “I'm perfectly healthy, thank you very much.” He turns his attention back to Crowley. “And it's a fair question.”

The demon seems highly amused by their little exchange. “You two are quite precious,” he says. “It's been very entertaining watching you.”

Dean's blood feels like it's been turned to ice. “You've been watching us?” he asks, grimacing. “How long?”

“Well, I _definitely_ witnessed the softcore porn at the pool table right now,” Crowley informs him with a happy smile. “ _Vastly_ entertaining!”

Dean tries really hard not to flush like a schoolgirl since that's about the last thing he wants to do in the presence of a motherfucking demon, but it turns out to be quite a challenge and he curses himself for his poor body reactions.

“I was actually considering letting it continue because you two really looked like it's been long overdue and I'm a nice bloke who's happy to give people the opportunity to shag each other's brains out, but unfortunately I've got a tight schedule and I couldn't risk you being occupied for hours.” Crowley actually sounds like this whole thing is quite a shame and Dean can't help grinding his teeth and hoping that the guy would change the subject instantly. “So I had to interrupt. Sorry about that.”

From the corners of his eyes Dean notices Castiel frown. “But you didn't interrupt us while we –” He pauses, apparently searching for the right phrase and looking quite awkward doing so. “It … it was Dean's father who –”

He stops once again, sudden realization flickering over his features. “It was you that called me, wasn't it? Not John.”

Crowley laughs. “Aren't you a clever boy, Castiel.”

Castiel seems rather uncomfortable all of a sudden, as if the King of Crossroads having his personal cellphone number is the worst thing that could happen to him.

Dean, though, has got some more urgent concerns. “My dad –”

“-- is fine,” Crowley cuts in. “He's probably at home, watching a game, drinking some beer and wondering what his stupid son is doing right now. I never touched a hair on his sodding head. Damn, I never met the man in the first place. I just copied his voice for a minute.”

Relief rushes through Dean's body. Granted, he shouldn't trust a demon's word _ever_ , but Crowley seems like the braggy type and he's got no real reason to lie about this.

Nonetheless, Dean will call John as soon as that thing is gone. Just to be safe.

“So you posed as John Winchester?” Castiel asks. “Why?”

“To push you in the right direction,” Crowley explains with a shrug. “You were almost there, you only needed the last puzzle piece. I gave it to you. Graciously, I might add.”

“You might not,” Dean grunts. “Why didn't you just come over and told us, like you're doing now. Why using my dad for that?”

Crowley grins. “Because it's more fun this way.”

Dean clenches his fist, but refrains from succumbing to the urge to punch the guy's nose. Sure, no one messes with his family, it's like the biggest mistake _ever_ , and usually the hunter would make this dude regret his actions immensely so he'd never dare to do something like that ever again. However, getting into a fight with a fucking demon isn't the smartest move to begin with and Dean values his life too much to endanger it unnecessarily because of his unpredictable temper.

Still, he can't keep himself from hissing, “You're a frigging dick!”

Because it's the truth and nobody can stop him voicing it.

Crowley, however, doesn't seem fazed by it. “Well, good that we've established that,” he replies. “Can we go on now? I fear I'll need a tetanus shot after leaving this fine establishment and I hate being late for a doctor's appointment.”

Castiel looks confused for a second, probably about to ask whether demons are seriously in need for vaccinations or even physicians, but eventually he decides to drop it and clears his throat instead. “So you called me? Gave me the last bit of information for figuring out the witches' ritual? _Helped_ me?” He tilts his head. “Why?”

That's certainly a very good question.

Dean trains his gaze on Crowley, an expectant expression on his face, while he simultaneously tries to draw Castiel a little bit closer again because that stupid idiot doesn't seem to care that he's talking to a creature of hell right now.

“Well, mainly because I need some help and I wanted to test if you're clever enough to be of use for me,” the demon confesses like it's the most natural thing.

Dean lifts a brow. “ _You_ need _help_? From us?”

“You know, great strength is recognizing when you're unable to master the situation all on your own,” Crowley counters, sounding a bit standoffish now. “The greatest weakness of mankind is probably not asking for help because of ridiculous things like honor or bloody stubbornness. You'd rather risk getting yourself killed than admit that you're not the almighty.”

Dean can't exactly argue with that since he indeed has some point there, but he can't bring himself to agree with a hell monster.

“So you need our help … to find Emily Hooter's soul?” Dean summarizes tentatively.

“It's a little bit more than that,” Crowley contradicts.

Castiel suddenly stiffens beside the hunter. “Souls,” he mutters, looking at the demon. “You said … you said you were searching for some of your _souls_. Plural.”

Crowley nods, obviously quite unhappy. “Emily Hooter was just the first. About twenty-four hours after her disappearance several other souls went missing.”

Dean hesitates for a moment. He really doesn't know how to assess this new development. “What exactly does 'several' mean?”

Crowley makes a quiet noise that almost sounds like a growl. “Enough to get _my_ attention.”

So they apparently aren't talking about five absent kids then.

“So someone is raising them from hell?” Dean asks, briefly glancing in Castiel's direction who appears quite pensive and probably lost once again in his own mind. “And that's our problem how? It doesn't really sound like a bad thing.”

Human souls getting away from hell – yeah, not especially something that would make the hunter's boots shake.

Crowley, though, snorts very unattractively. “Are you sure about that? Why? Because you're assuming that only souls that made some demon deals once upon a time to save their mommies from cancer are vanishing?” He shakes his head. “It may come as a surprise, but the percentage of dumb people who sell their souls for whatever reasons is very slim. It's not the most common thing in the world, Dean.”

The hunter frowns. “So you're saying …?”

“Most souls down in hell are the ones that _deserve_ to be there!” Crowley says with emphasis. “Lovely folks like mass murderers, serial killers, warlords or people who talk in the cinema.” He sets his scotch aside and folds his arms across his chest. “So am I supposed to tell Jack the Ripper or Al Capone that Dean Winchester is rooting for them to get out of hell?”

Dean instantly pulls a face. “Of course not!”

“Yeah, I thought so …”

Dean squirms awkwardly, feeling rather uncomfortable under the demon's intense gaze, and is about to offer some sarcastic remark to dissolve the tension somehow, but before he's able to open his mouth he suddenly feels fingers linking with his. Dean flinches slightly and can't help looking down, noticing Castiel gripping him tightly with his long and slender fingers, most likely in an attempt to calm the hunter down and make sure he wouldn't do or say something utterly stupid, risking both their lives in the process.

And Dean is quite aware that it's probably nothing more than a reassurance tactic, but he finds himself realizing that Castiel is all warm and soft and really nice to hold hands with.

“Okay, how is this even happening?” the Man of Letters asks bewildered, not showing any kind of indication that touching Dean affects him somehow. “You didn't notice a thing while someone stole all these souls? None of you down there in hell?”

Crowley's face turns very grim very fast and Dean can't help feeling grateful that he's not on the demon's bad side right now. There is something dark and ancient deep within his eyes, making it crystal clear that his outer shape is merely a vessel containing a powerful force you don't want to mess with.

“Whoever did this, they're quite good, I'll give them that,” the demon admits. “The souls vanished from one moment to another. Didn't leave a bloody trail behind.”

Castiel's grip on Dean's hand tightens. “The ritual _is_ rather impressive magic. Obviously enough to break into hell and fool some demons.”

Crowley's eyebrow starts to twitch at the last bit, so Dean hurries to ask, “So, do you have any idea who did it? These runaway witches?”

“It's a possibility,” Castiel speculates. “Perhaps, after successfully raising Emily Hooter's soul, some of them decided to go further. Get more souls.” He quirks his head to one side. “But not all of them agreed.”

Dean mulls this over in his head. “You think that might have been the reason why two of them ended up dead? They had an argument whether they should stay in the soul business or not?”

It actually does make sense. They began this endeavor to save their friend's life, but maybe some of them got greedy and wanted more.

“But what would they want with Jack the Ripper's fucking soul?” Dean can't help wondering, though.

Crowley scoffs and casts him a glance that makes the hunter feel like a toddler barely able to hold a glass with two hands. “You're _honestly_ asking this question? Do you learn nothing in your little hunter school?”

Dean grits his teeth and swallows the offensive comment that's lying on the tip of his tongue. He's been called dumb before and it's never an awesome experience, but he can't risk getting into a fight with the King of the freaking Crossroads over this.

So instead he looks at Castiel, hoping for an explanation that would be rather kind than rude.

“Demons don't only collect souls because it's fun to torture them in hell afterwards and see them become twisted and corrupted,” Castiel says, his voice low. “Souls, especially those who offered themselves willingly, possess a huge amount of power. I remember a text where the author claims that a single soul has the energy of a hundred stars. In the wrong hands they can be used for terrible purposes. As main ingredients for destructive spells, for example, or even as terrifying weapons.” Castiel shudders a bit. “These witches are able to do a lot of damage if they're seriously in the possession of that many souls.”

Ah damn.

This case officially got far bigger than they all anticipated.

“Listen to your pretty boy toy,” Crowley cuts in. “This whole thing could go wrong very fast. For humans _and_ for demons alike.”

Dean grumbles underneath his breath. Who the fuck would have thought that they'd end up here? With them chatting with a demon in a bar about witches stealing nuclear bombs from hell?

“As you can see, you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours, or whatever the saying is,” Crowley states, taking a few steps closer and totally ignoring the way Dean tenses up. “Both sides want these witches out of the way. So why don't ally our resources?”

Dean's incapable of keeping himself from grimacing by the sheer thought. “So you seriously expect the hunter community and the Men of Letters to work _with demons_? Is that it?”

It sounds absolutely ridiculous.

Preposterous.

Unthinkable.

Crowley, thankfully, doesn't seem insulted by the incredulous tone in Dean's voice. He simply smiles like he didn't expect a different outcome anyway.

“Well, you can treat my little phone call as a peace offering,” he says, opening his arms in a gesture that's probably meant to be inviting. “A request for a temporary truce. Since we're all in the same boat and might be able to help each other out.”

Dean has to admit that having the concentrated power of hell on their side would be a huge asset and could push the case in the right way quite fast, but it runs against his beliefs in such a strong manner he's not sure he'd be able to ignore it anytime soon. How could he when he committed his whole life to hunt and kill creatures like Crowley?

It sounds so utterly wrong it actually makes him sick to even consider it for a split second.

“I'll stay in touch,” Crowley offers, apparently adept enough in reading human emotions to notice Dean's great discomfort. “Just call me when you change your mind.”

“If we change our mind,” the hunter corrects him instantly.

The demon snorts at that. “Oh believe me, you _will_ change it. That's not even a question.”

He pulls something out of his coat pocket that looks like a business card and lifts his arm, obviously about to come in close contact with Castiel by grabbing his hand or whatever. And there are a lot of things that Dean let slide tonight because it's would have been risky using his normal MO, but _this_?

There is no way in fucking hell he'd allow this _thing_ to touch Castiel!

So he quickly grips the demon's wrist and holds him off before there is any skin contact happening.

“ _Don't you dare_!” hisses Dean threateningly. “Don't. Touch. Him!”

 _Or I will put a bullet between your eyes, no matter the consequences,_ he doesn't say.

Crowley chuckles amused. “Look at all this protectiveness and jealousy. Sexy!” He winks one time and presses the business card into Dean's palm instead. “My number. For when you're desperate for my help. Or if you're interested in a threesome. I'd be open for that too.”

Dean pulls his hand back quickly, pulling a face he hopes the demon wouldn't be able to misinterpret. Castiel doesn't look exactly thrilled either, pressing himself closer to the hunter.

Crowley, however, simply ignores the disgust on their features. He just grins widely and says, “It's been a pleasure, boys, and I can't wait for your call. Don't take too long.”

And with these words he suddenly vanishes into thin air.

Dean blinks a few times and stares at the now empty spot right in front of them.

Did this _seriously_ just happen?

Did he really meet the King of Crossroads, right here in a pub in fucking nowhere next to a bowl filled with stale chips and a flickering exit sign?

Not once in his long training did someone think about preparing him for _that_.

He's so occupied with his jumbling thoughts that he even misses the fact that he's still holding Castiel's hand until the Man of Letters squeezes his fingers lightly to get the hunter's attention.

Dean immediately turns toward him, realizing suddenly that he doesn't exactly feel any urge to let go in the near future. And Castiel obviously isn't far behind since his grip increases spectacularly as soon as their eyes meet.

“What do we do now?” Castiel asks, his voice unnaturally quiet.

And Dean finds himself taking a deep breath and leaning closer, searching comfort in Castiel's presence. He doesn't even care what this would look like from the outside.

“Now?” he wonders, his throat feeling raw all of a sudden. “Now we're calling the cavalry.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I always wanted to include Crowley in one of my stories and I finally saw a big opening here! I hope you didn't mind his presence and him teasing Dean and Cas a bit ;)
> 
> By the way, the first one who notices the small “Firefly” reference will get a cookie :D
> 
> Till next chapter!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We should call the Men of Letters,” Castiel raises his voice eventually, eyeing Dean like he's worried the hunter would have a freak out in the next few minutes. “They need to know what's happening here.”
> 
> Dean snorts. “What's happening here? _We_ don't even know that, Cas!”
> 
> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually thought I had to post this tomorrow night since AO3 had some serious issues when I tried to log in, but as soon as I was about to give up it suddenly worked again :D
> 
> Then I just hope this will be uploaded properly and you'll have some fun with this extra long chapter!!
> 
> _

Dean takes a huge breath of relief when they enter their motel room, surrounded by demon's traps and salt, and feels at least a vague sensation of immediate safety rush through his body.

He's been edgy and anxious the whole way back, practically dragging Castiel through the narrow streets, not caring at all when the man started to protest at some point that they should take it slow. Dean simply scoffed into his face and shook his head, wondering if Castiel even possesses some tiny bit of self-protection. It certainly isn't every day they run into a big shot demon and Dean certainly won't threat this lightly.

Not by a long shot.

“We should call the Men of Letters,” Castiel raises his voice eventually, eyeing Dean like he's worried the hunter would have a freak out in the next few minutes. “They need to know what's happening here.”

Dean snorts. “What's happening here? _We_ don't even know that, Cas!”

He feels so freaking frustrated right now. He just came to this small town expecting to shoot some witches in the face and have it over with before dinner time. And now he made acquaintances with a fucking demon, the King of the Crossroads no less, and feels paranoia rising up inside of him because he can't be sure anymore if there is any safe place left.

“Then we need to _find out_!” Castiel states, unrelenting, as if Dean being distressed by the whole situation is just a minor disturbance.

Dean would love to lash out, to scream and yell for a change, merely to let off some steam, but instead he takes a deep breath and tries to calm down somewhat. “Okay, fine, you're not wrong,” he agrees, running his fingers through his hair. “But we won't do this alone. We'll notify the Men of Letters, especially the headquarters nearby, and of course we're gonna call Christian because he needs to know that demons are running around in town. And then we'll call my parents since they know every hunter and will get us a frigging army over here. And then, after I've sent your ass back to Lebanon, we'll start to search the whole fucking town, question everyone who might know something like we never questioned anyone before, and –”

“Wait, wait!” Castiel interrupts, rising his hands. “You want to send me back to Lebanon?”

Dean completely ignores his angry tone when he answers, “Yes, of course.”

As expected Castiel doesn't seem entirely happy about that, but Dean isn't exactly surprised. The guy spent a lot of time and effort to convince Dean to take him with him, therefor he's probably not thrilled to go back home before the case is even solved.

“You can't boss me around, Dean!” Castiel presses through gritted teeth.

Dean waves him off. “I took you with me because you insisted on seeing the scene. And guess what, _you did_!” He points at Castiel's laptop on the table where at least two million photos of the crime scene are saved. “So now you should go back to your huge library and find out if there's any way to track down those crazy witches. You seriously don't have to be here for that!”

Castiel, however, doesn't seem impressed by that. “It's always beneficial to have an expert nearby –”

“I don't care, Cas!” Dean interrupts sharply. “I could barely tolerate your presence _before_ all of that. But _now_ , with motherfucking demons crawling out of their holes to search for their precious souls?” He shakes his head. “Damn, man, I can't have you around here!”

Castiel narrows his eyes, obviously more than ready to pick up a fight. “Contrary to your beliefs I'm not a liability, Winchester! I can take care of myself …”

“I don't doubt that,” Dean says and he honestly doesn't. Castiel is fit and, as proven, quite skilled with guns, not to mention the probably thousands of tricks and spells and runes he's got up in his sleeves. It's actually rather terrifying to think about what this guy is able to do if he'd put his mind to it.

But still …

“I need you gone, Cas,” Dean insists. “Don't you understand?”

“Because I'm weak,” Castiel summarizes, folding his arms across his chest.

“Because you're a distraction.”

The Man of Letters pulls a face at Dean's choice of words. “I'm sorry that you're thinking I would stand in your way and endanger the whole operation, but I'm trained and more than qualified to --”

“I can't afford to worry about you all the time!” Dean cuts in, with more bite than he originally intended. But he can't help it, his emotions are boiling hot inside his system. “Going out there I'd wonder the whole time whether you're safe and alright and that would be really freaking distracting! Don't you see that?”

Castiel stares at the hunter for a moment, his expression unreadable, before eventually responding, in a much lower voice, “You're … _worried_ about me?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes, of course!” he states. “Didn't you notice the way Crowley looked at you? As if he wanted to eat you for breakfast – and not in a consensual sexy way! I've got no doubt in my mind that he'll be back. For you, for me, I don't know. I _hate_ the thought of him showing up here while I'm outside doing my hunter thing and … and …”

He would think about it all the time. The possible scenarios of Crowley surprising Castiel while Dean would be too far away to do anything about it always playing inside his head would drive him crazy quite soon.

“It's better if you'd be back at Lebanon,” Dean says. “It's the safest place on earth after all.”

That's one of the reasons why he never worries about Sam. And he seriously wants to say the same thing about Castiel now, too.

In the meantime, Castiel's whole demeanor gentled. He steps closer and touches Dean's arm for a second in a reassuring manner, offering a strained smile. “Your concern about my safety is very sweet –”

“I'm not sweet,” Dean can't help grumbling.

“-- and I sincerely appreciate it,” he continues, his voice a bit shaky. “I _really_ do, you have no idea!” He takes a deep breath. “But what about me, Dean? Don't you think I wouldn't be worried as well?”

Dean frowns. “Uh …”

“I'd have the same problem as you,” Castiel claims. “I would sit in our library, incapable of focusing on anything, because I'd be way too occupied with asking myself whether you're okay or not. If you're hurt or maybe even worse. I wouldn't get any work done that way, believe me.”

Dean feels something weird churning inside his chest and for a split second he fears that he'd do something incredibly stupid, like get all emotional and stuff. So instead he clears his throat awkwardly, avoids Castiel's piercing gaze and notes, “Isn't that just normal for you? Sitting around and doing your research while hunters are outside fighting the fight? So why would you be bothered by it now?”

“I'm always bothered by it, to a certain degree,” Castiel counters. “But now we have demons and witches playing with forces they probably not even aware of yet … and it's _you_.”

It sounds a lot like _“I always worry about you”_ and Dean has got no frigging clue how to deal with that. He's seriously not equipped to handle such a situation with any sort of grace.

Thankfully, Castiel apparently doesn't expect some kind of direct answer to that. He rather steps back a bit as if he's in desperate need of some distance between them and proposes, “How about a compromise?”

Dean lifts a brow. “And how would that compromise look like?”

“I will stay here,” Castiel explains. “And I don't only mean this town but this very motel room right here. We already shielded it against demons and magic, but I will add further protections until no creatures, as powerful as they might be, are going to be able to cross the threshold.”

Dean hesitates. “You can do that?”

Castiel's lips curl upwards. “I'm very good at my job, Dean.”

The hunter starts to squirm. He'd rather see Castiel on his way to Lebanon, but it's quite obvious that the guy isn't keen on budging anytime soon. Dean knows from experience that they would probably argue for hours without any real solution ahead and he's actually not in the mood for big fight scenes. He just wants to lay down, take a deep nap and forget any of this shit happened in the first place.

“And you promise to stay inside this room the whole time?” Dean asks, nonetheless still a bit skeptical. “Even if someone is dying outside in the parking lot, crying for help?”

“I _promise_.”

Dean can't fully believe that, to be honest, but it's most likely the best he will get, so he nods one time and ignores the fluttering in his belly when Castiel offers him a genuine smile.

He seriously doesn't have time for any weird and inappropriate body reactions.

“Then let's go to work.”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


The news that souls are missing from hell and that demons running around asking for some sort of truce to get of the bottom of this spreads like a freaking wildfire among the hunters and Men of Letters.

The first thing Dean does is calling his dad because despite Crowley's reassurance that John is perfectly well Dean has to check for himself. Thankfully his father is absolutely fine, though a bit disgruntled for being woken up from his dreams, and instantly gets to business as soon as Dean explains the situation. From there on it's like a monster released on the world and Dean sees himself confronted with more attention than he ever thought possible.

He's barely able to catch any sleep, his phone ringing constantly, and at a certain point he's so freaking frustrated he just wants to drown the little thing in the toilet and have it over with. He doesn't want to talk to the Men of Letters asking him all kinds of questions about Crowley and the things he had to say, over and over again, making it more than once very clear that some headquarters are obviously incapable of communicating with each other. And at the same time Dean doesn't want to talk with the countless hunters as well who either promise to join them as backup in the near future or tell him in great detail about some women seen in their ares who fit the witches' descriptions to a certain degree.

Everyone apparently has something to say. Even at four AM.

At some point Dean simply turns his phone off and heads to bed for at least a few hours of sleep, but it turns out to be quite futile in the end because all he dreams about is Crowley's sly smirk and his hand touching Castiel in a way that makes the hunter sick to his stomach, jolting him awake more than once during their short night.

Castiel seems to have a hard time, too. He went to bed about the same time as Dean, but the hunter heard him murmur into his phone on several occasions even with all the lights out. And when Dean finally decides to get up and face the day at ass o'clock in the morning, Castiel is already wide awake, staring at his computer screen, probably checking out some sources his Men of Letters buddies sent him.

“Did you even get at least a little bit of sleep?” Dean asks, rolling out of bed and rubbing his eyes.

Castiel makes an incoherent noise, clearly way to occupied with the text in front of him to acknowledge Dean's existence.

“Any ground-breaking news while I was asleep?” Dean tries once again.

Castiel blinks and finally turns toward the hunter. “No, nothing,” he counters. “Only a lot of information and not enough time to sort it out yet.”

Dean snorts. “Sounds like fun,” he says, his voice still a bit croaky. “Listen, you hungry?”

Castiel wrinkles his forehead as though he doesn't even know the concept. “Not overly, no.”

Dean rolls his eyes. That's not the answer he wanted to hear. “You're a growing boy, Cas,” he says. “You can't just skip breakfast.”

“Dean …” The bags underneath his eyes are more prominent than ever and he looks like the opposite of capable of fighting with Dean about food of all things.

And Dean takes pity on the poor guy. “Okay, you know what? I'm meeting up with Christian at the diner next to his motel before stopping at the sheriff's office. I'll get you something there, alright? How do pancakes sound?”

Castiel hesitates. “Uh … okay.”

Dean scoffs at the lack of enthusiasm. “And how about something sweet? Christian told me something about cupcakes or muffins or whatever at that place which taste _fucking sexy_. His words, not mine.”

Castiel looks like he's way too overwhelmed by Dean offering to get him something to eat. Damn, the bastard obviously didn't catch _any_ kind of sleep last night.

“And while I'm gone you should get some rest,” Dean orders, noticing his voice turning way softer than he actually intended. “And don't leave the room! Don't forget what we agreed on.”

That, finally, gets a reaction beside confusion. “Don't worry, Dean. I will be perfectly safe.”

Dean can't help scowling at these words. Safe, with demons and soul-stealing witches running around?

No, that clearly sounds like the opposite of safety.

“You're mad if you really think that.”

Castiel smirks at him. “Then maybe I am mad.”

And Dean would like to argue, but then Castiel's got the audacity to freaking _wink_ at him and Dean's brain is too tired to deal with something like that without any kind of caffeine in his system. So he just rushes into the bathroom while cursing Castiel for being _so much_ all at once and himself for being so freaking weak that he's incapable of building up some decent defenses.

Sooner or later that guy will be the death of him.

Dammit.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


It's 7:23 AM when the news finally reach Dean's mother.

Dean feels like a fucking zombie while sitting in a booth in the diner next to Christian's motel and gripping his coffee like his life depended on it when his phone starts to ring incessantly.

The hunter groans, eager to just bury his face into the plate full of delicious bacon right in front of him and cold-shoulder whoever is bothering him now, but when he glances at the screen and notices Mary's name he's unable to simply avert his gaze and have it over with. It goes against everything he has been taught as a son.

“Hey, Mom,” he greets her, trying for cheerful and probably missing by a mile.

“I'm coming over there!” Mary states without much preamble, some rustling in the background indicating that she's already rummaging through her drawers to pack some stuff. She's never been one for fucking around, especially when her family was involved.

“Mom …” Dean sighs.

“No, no, don't try and lecture me,” Mary grumbles. “My husband telling me that our kid came face to face with a _demon_ – that's the worst wake-up call ever! I almost had a fucking heart attack!”

Mary always resolved to curse like a sailor when upset and Dean can't help wondering if he got his bad mouth from her. He feels weirdly proud by that thought.

“Mom, can you please sit down for a minute and breath?” the hunter begs. He imagines her emotions being on overdrive since she got the news and Dean seriously doesn't need her to collapse on the spot or crash her car on the highway because she was too worked up to think properly. “You have to be rational about this.”

Dean knows he's a freaking hypocrite since he wouldn't think straight if someone he cared about deeply would be in a situation like this, but it's out of the question for his mother to come to town right now.

“You're how many states away?” Dean asks. “You'd take eternities to even come here.”

“There are things like airports and planes,” Mary counters. “Only because you are terrified of them, doesn't mean I can't use them to get to my son.”

“I'm not terrified –” Dean grumbles.

“Yes, honey, you are,” Mary interrupts. “And that's not bad or anything. Everyone has something they're afraid of. For Sam it's clown, for your dad tax audits –”

“Mom, focus!” Dean says, sharing a glance with Christian who gives him a funny look. “What does Dad say about you wanting to come here?”

Mary grits her teeth, making it very transparent that John is about as happy about the whole thing as Dean.

“He's right, Mom,” Dean clarifies with emphasis. “You haven't had an active case for ages, you're practically retired and I can't have you running around here, distracting me from my job.”

Mary scoffs. “So you're calling me a liability now?”

Dean bites his bottom lips, contemplating his next words quite carefully. Mary is known for never forgetting anything and Dean can't have his mother holding onto a grudge.

“You're still one of the bests, Mom,” Dean says. “You always have been. That's why I need you to stay at your headquarter, making this whole mess a bit less messier, you know? It's hard to organize stuff here at the scene with just a few laptops and phones. Cas is doing his best, but I think he's about to cry in the near future. And you honestly don't want Cas to cry, right?”

Dean can almost hear how Mary is trying really hard not to smile. “There are still others –”

“Yeah, there are,” Dean agrees reluctantly. “But right now no one really seems to know or care who's in charge.”

That has always been one of their biggest problems. The Men of Letters somehow have some kind of hierarchy, but it's not the most stable thing to begin with, different headquarters and departments always squabbling who has got the upper hand, and the hunters are entirely unfamiliar with terms like 'rank' and 'obedience'. The system mostly works for their everyday cases, however, as soon as something as big as demons show up, the old issue are welling up, making the whole thing more complicated.

“And you are _Mary Winchester_ ,” Dean reminds her. “You're one of the best hunters in the business and married to a Man of Letters. Our people are more inclined listening to you.”

At least it has been the case the last few times demons made some appearances and some kind of coordination and organization had to be of the essence to defeat them.

“I know you're right,” Mary says. “That doesn't mean I'm happy about it.”

Dean takes a deep breath. “Trust me, I know. I'd hate it too, if I were you. But I promise to be careful.”

“Dean, you've got to deal with _demons_ and _witches stealing souls_ – there is no way in hell I won't be worried out of my mind.”

“I get that,” Dean agrees. “But a whole bunch of hunters are already on their way and every bookworm available is working their ass off as we speak. Cas is barely able to keep track with all that information coming his way. The case is probably cracked by the end of the day.”

It's a big, fat lie and Mary most likely knows that as well, but she refrains from calling him out.

“You'd seriously help me best if you kick all those people's asses and turn this operation into a smooth thing,” Dean urges. “That's what we need.”

And he honestly can't have his mother by his side, worrying constantly about her well-being. It's bad enough that he isn't able to make Castiel leave as soon as possible, he seriously doesn't need another person to distract him from his job.

“Okay, I see your point here.” Mary still sounds fairly reluctant, but she seems finally aware of Dean's flawless logic. “But you _have_ to check in with me regularly, do you understand? And I don't mean once a day or whatever but all the goddamned time. Till the point you get sick of my voice, got it?”

Dean nods automatically and hastily adds a “Yes” when he remembers she can't see him.

“And as soon as you fail to pick up your phone or you don't answer a text within five minutes, I'll send the freaking national guard your way, do you hear me?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Mom …”

“ _Do. You. Hear. Me_?” she presses, making it more than obvious that she won't allow any kind of protest.

“Yes, ma'am …”

“And I will remain in close contact with Cas because he won't sugarcoat the whole situation, contrary to you,” she says. “How is he, by the way?”

Dean grinds his teeth. “Stubborn. He doesn't wanna go back to Lebanon, though that would be way safer for him.”

He can't prevent the little jump of his heart when he reminds himself of the night before, with Castiel's eyes being so fucking expressive while he voiced his concern about Dean's safety. Dean is almost able to feel the tension and emotions flickering through the room again, thick and heavy.

“He is a very skilled man,” Mary states. “He knows what he's doing.”

“Yeah, well, I grounded him, so there is that.” Dean smirks, watching Christian choke on a laugh. “He's confined to our well-protected room until further notice.”

“And he agreed to that?” Mary asks.

“I'm very persuasive.”

“You mean like all the times you tried to convince me to make pie for breakfast and you failed repeatedly?”

Dean fights back a blush. “ _Seriously_ , Mom?”

“Wait!” Christian suddenly pipes in, looking quite amused. “You two share a room?”

Okay, that exactly one of the things Dean _doesn't_ want to talk about.

He shoots Christian a dark glare and mouths, _“Shut up!”_

His cousin, however, doesn't seem very impressed by that. “ _Persuasive_ indeed. The word gets a whole new meaning when you're looking at it that way.” He chuckles. “Though I figured you more of a smitten fool, actually. Didn't you just call him fifteen minutes ago just to ask if you should bring over a muffin? It's really sweet.”

“I sent him a text and he didn't answer yet,” Dean finds himself clarifying although it probably only makes it worse. So he does the mature thing – kicking Christian's shin and making a face – before scrambling to his feet and stepping outside, as far away from his annoying cousin as possible.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Dean?” Mary asks curiously. There is no teasing in her voice which makes the whole thing weirdly worse.

She _knows_. Dean has got no clue how, but she's always claimed that, as their mother, she's omniscient about everything big going on in the lives of her children and so far that proved true every single time Dean and Sam had to deal with shit, good or bad.

Damn, even two states over she's able to work her magic somehow.

It's probably the scariest thing Dean ever experienced.

“There is _nothing_ to tell,” Dean states, biting his lower lip. “We're sharing a room because the Men of Letters only pay for one. That's it.”

“Dean …”

“And even _if_ there was something going on,” he continues, his throat constricting a bit at the thought, “I don't think it's the right time to make this into a great deal, right? We've got more important things to talk about.”

Mary stays silent for a moment before saying in a low voice, “There is nothing more important for me than your happiness, Dean.”

The hunter finds himself swallowing loudly and starting to fidget. “Um …”

How do you respond to something like that?

He's never been an expert on all the feelings crap, especially when people are showing one way or another how much they care for him. He's unable to deal with something like this.

“Well, your safety is a top priority as well,” Mary concedes eventually, most likely sensing that her son is getting quite uncomfortable with the subject at hand. “So don't forget to call or else I'll be on the next flight.”

Dean ducks his head. “Yeah, Mom, I get it.”

“Good.” Dean is almost able to see Mary's nod. “And now tell me everything we know about the situation so far …”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


When Dean eventually returns to his booth, Christian's face is doing some weird things, undoubtedly eager to say something Dean clearly wouldn't want to hear and not giving a damn about being an annoying piece of garbage. The hunter merely scowls at his cousin and makes a raw noise coming from the depths of his throat which little Sammy always scared shitless back in the days and for now at least confuses Christian enough to back off and let Dean enjoy his bacon in blissful silence.

Or, well, not really in silence, since Christian starts to ramble about some of his hunter buddies who are pondering to join forces with them against the witches and demons, but Dean chooses to ignore him and center his whole attention on his breakfast instead.

He's always been good in tuning out douchebags.

So it even takes a while for him to notice that his phone started to ring at some point once again. Dean heaves a deep sigh because that stupid thing is basically in constant action since they spread the news about Crowley's appearance the night before and he actually hoped to have at least a few quiet moments for himself before jumping back in the game, however, when he sees Castiel's name flashing up on his display he can't bring himself to reject the call.

Still, he hesitates for a second, throwing a glance in Christian's direction who stopped talking and wears a suspiciously blank expression. As if he's trying way too hard to look as casual as possible.

Dean throws one last glare at him, threatening him just with the twitch of his eyes to shut his motherfucking mouth if he values his dick and testicles in working condition, and eventually answers his phone.

“Heya, Cas,” he says cheerfully. “Did you finally decide on that muffins? Because I've gotta say, dude, they look frigging delicious and you'd seriously miss out if –”

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” a deep voice answers that is most definitely not Castiel's. “But this is Sheriff Palmer speaking.”

Dean blinks confused, for a second wondering whether the lack of sleep made him read the name on his phone's display wrong.

“Um, Sheriff?” He probably sounds more bewildered than he ever did before in his life. From the corners of his eyes he notices Christian's head snapping up in attention, suddenly all business.

“I'm … I'm sorry,” Dean stammers, feeling his chest constrict in an uncomfortable way. “I thought my partner was calling. I didn't realize …”

“Ah shit, you're Agent Barkes, right?” Palmer groans. “ _Dammit_! I mean, the description the motel owner gave me fits perfectly, but I didn't think it'd be you. Though now a lot of stuff makes sense. All the crime scene photos in your room, with that satanic crap –”

“My – my room?” Dean feels how the blood in his veins slowly begins to freeze. “Why were you in my room?”

The sheriff sighs deeply and Dean knows that sound way too well. It's the _“I've got some very bad news and I don't know where to begin”_ -sigh.

Dean doesn't like that sigh at all.

In the background he hears noises. People yelling, people running, their voices are all urgent and demanding. It seems to be chaos back there.

“Why did you call me?” Dean's voice is barely a whisper now because he's quite certain that he actually doesn't want to hear the answer.

“I …” There is some shuffling, most likely Palmer fidgeting awkwardly. When Dean met him at the beginning of their investigation (back when they all thought it'd been nothing more than witches messing with some ritual) Dean already figured that the poor guy was vastly overwhelmed by the occurrences. He hadn't been used to dead bodies showing up in his sleepy, little town and had no freaking idea how to handle it properly. Dean undoubtedly noticed him looking all kinds of relieved when Dean and Christian turned up at his office waving their fake FBI badges, quite glad that he wasn't solely responsible for solving that murder case anymore.

He's just a small town sheriff who hoped to live the days until his retirement in relative peace.

And right now he's seriously not the sort of man Dean wants to deal with.

“Palmer, _talk to me_!” Dean hisses. His heart is beating like crazy, almost jumping out of his ribcage, and it's making him unbelievably dizzy. “What is going on? Why are you in my room? Why are you calling me from my partner's phone?”

“Mr. Novak's phone …” The sheriff swallows loudly. “Your text was the last communication on this device, so I figured you must be the second person who is renting this room. And like I said, the motel owner gave us a fairly accurate description. Though I had _no idea_ …”

Dean feels panic rising up inside of him and for a moment he's got a really hard time to breathe. You don't need to be a fucking genius to realize that something very bad had happened and that it's clearly not a good sign that Palmer is using Castiel's phone and looking through his contacts because Castiel is apparently incapable of offering these information himself.

 _God_.

Dean finds himself leaping to his feet, bumping their table in the process. His cup falls over and spills coffee freaking everywhere, but the hunter doesn't give a flying fuck. He simply turns toward the exit while forcing the sensation of fear and panic back and only focusing on the adrenaline pumping through his body.

He can't allow himself to lose his shit.

He just can't!

He barely registers Christian following him after he apologized profusely to their waitress and leaves some money and what looks like a generous tip behind. He stares at Dean as if he's got a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue, but for whatever reason he doesn't say a single word. Maybe he doesn't want to intrude Dean's phone call or perhaps he's simply reluctant considering Dean's whole demeanor – the hunter couldn't care less.

He doesn't even have time to be grateful that his cousin isn't bugging him for a change.

“There … there has been another attack,” Palmer eventually raises his voice again, sounding like the whole thing pains him immensely. “No one is dead,” he reassures quickly, “but the ambulance just arrived and the paramedics, well, they look … they look really …” He clears his throat. “You should come.”

Dean shuts his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath.

 _Shit_.

“Cas … is he …?” He feels his throat clogging up. “I just talked to him twenty minutes ago. He was fine.”

Dean still hears him saying, _“Don't worry, Dean. I will be perfectly safe.”_

It's been kinda reassuring back then. Now it sounds like a bad joke.

“We don't know what happened yet,” the sheriff continues. “According to a witness someone broke into his – _your_ motel room and …He's unconscious since we arrived and the paramedics …”

They are worried. They have no clue what's going on.

They don't know the things Dean knows.

He instantly rushes toward the Impala, not giving a damn as he nearly bumps into some woman about to enter the diner. All that's on his mind is _Cas Cas Cas_.

This _can't_ be happening!

Not now.

“Cas, you dumb sonofabitch,” he mutters to himself as he starts the Impala's engine. “If you dare to die …”

He's unable to complete the sentence, his vocal chords stopping to work all of a sudden, and instead sets his car into motion, heading for the motel he shouldn't have left in the first place.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry -- not sorry ;D


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean breaks every traffic rule humanity ever invented on his way back to the motel.
> 
> -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again :)
> 
> Once again I wanna thank every single one of you so much for your continued support and your lovely/kind/enthusiastic comments – you're always brightening up my day!!
> 
> I hope you'll have fun with this chapter as well :D
> 
> -

Dean breaks every traffic rule humanity ever invented on his way back to the motel.

For a split second he feels a pang of concern for the Impala's safety, wondering whether he's even lucid enough to drive or if he shouldn't have just jumped into Christian's car and leave his Baby behind for now, but the thought is rather fleeting and he decides to dwell on this later. There are much more important things to worry about.

His stomach drops spectacularly when he finally arrives at his destination and the first thing he sees is the huge amount of police cars standing around in the parking lot. Sure, he expected the scene to look like that – the sheriff probably called every force available for a presumably FBI agent being attacked in his town –, but it's still horrifying to witness. It seems so _real_ all of sudden, like a goddamned nightmare.

Dean jumps out of the car almost instantly (after reminding himself that he actually has to turn off the Impala instead of leaping out of the still moving vehicle) and rushes toward his room, flashing his badge at officers trying to stop him from entering. They immediately let him go through as soon as they notice the three capital letters and that's undoubtedly a good thing because right this second Dean isn't above punching about anyone in the face who dares to step into his way.

“Where is he?” he yells right after he crossed the threshold. “What happened?”

Sheriff Palmer, who is standing next to Castiel's bed, startles at the harsh voice. “Agent Barkes.”

Dean lets his eyes rove over the room. It appears quite untouched, not very different from when he left, apart from a chair kicked over (the one Castiel's ass had been glued on for the last couple of days) and the law enforcement standing around, apparently checking the whole room for any kind of clue. They even rummage through Dean's underwear and usually the hunter would have smacked their heads really hard for that invasion of privacy, but right now he couldn't have cared less.

The only person that mattered is Castiel.

Who is nowhere to be found.

“Where is he?” Dean demands to know. He's on the verge of grabbing the sheriff's collar and shake him mercilessly, not giving a fuck about the man's crestfallen face and the big bag underneath his eyes.

“The ambulance took off a few minutes ago,” Palmer explains.

And yes, if Dean would have been able to think straight anymore, he probably would have noticed the lack of some certain cars in the parking lot. It makes sense to rush an injured person to the hospital as quickly as possible.

He probably shouldn't have wasted his time to come here in the first place.

He's already turning on his heels, for once in his life actually cursing himself for not installing a navigation system in the Impala like Sam had suggested at least a million times before because then he could have just punched in the address instead of asking for directions like a caveman, but before he's even able to catch someone nearby to demand to know where the frigging hospital in this godforsaken town is, he collides with a solid chest and finds himself blinking confusedly for a moment.

“Dammit, Dean, get a grip!” Christian hisses, grabbing the hunter's arm, most likely in an attempt to steady Dean at least a little bit. “Take a deep breath or something!”

Dean scowls. “That's your fucking advice? _Seriously_?”

Christian sighs. “You're not thinking rational, Winchester! You get yourself killed that way and Mary probably wouldn't forgive me for that.”

Dean grits his teeth and tries to free himself from his cousin's grip. He honestly doesn't need any stupid life lessons right now!

“Cas –”

“I know!” Christians replies, his voice almost sounding as if he actually cares. “But it won't do him any good if you're running around in town like a headless chicken. We have to be smarter than that.”

Dean can't help to silently agree, but he keeps his expression unrelenting.

“Someone broke in here,” Christians reminds him, emphasizing his words. “And the stories I heard about your Castiel make it perfectly clear that he protected this room with everything he knew. Am I right?”

Dean nods in confirmation. He personally oversaw Castiel put up some more runes and protection wards last night while simultaneously complaining about Dean's unnecessary overprotectiveness.

“Yeah, he did.”

“So,” Christian casts a quick glance at the police men standing so close they might overhear something and as a precaution lowers his voice, whispering, “ … who or _what_ the hell is powerful enough to not be affected by that.”

Dean freezes.

He hadn't actually really thought of the mechanics before, he only cared about Castiel being hurt by a douchebag who downright dared to invade their allegedly safe refuge.

He didn't fully consider what this meant.

“My guess?” Christian asks, his teeth gritting. “Witches that used the power of souls for their own purposes.”

Dean still hears Castiel's voice, loud and clear: _“These witches are able to do a lot of damage if they're seriously in the possession of that many souls.”_

And once again, the guy had been so fucking right it's actually painful.

“ _Fuck_!”, Dean swears, clenching his fists. The whole situation is a freaking mess.

“Couldn't agree more.” Christian nods. “That's why we have to be careful. They're still out there and maybe they'll look for us next. They had a reason they attacked Castiel in the first place. Maybe they don't like the fact that we're sniffing around and talking with demons.”

Dean can't seriously argue with him on that front, he totally agrees, but it still doesn't make it any better. He just wants to shove his cousin to the side and rush to the hospital. He wants to lose his frigging head and freak out.

Christian seems to catch Dean's chain of thoughts and tightens his grip rather uncomfortably. “I know what's going on in your head, stupid, but we have to think for a minute, okay? Make some kind of plan. Because your mother would kill us otherwise.”

Dean bites his bottom lip because there is nothing to add.

“Right now it's just the two of us,” Christian continues. “We have to stay together from now on, do you understand? We shouldn't be running around alone. It would only make it easier for those bastard witches or whoever did this.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Then what are we waiting for? Cas is _alone_ right now in that hospital!”

Christian hesitates, his gaze flickering through the room. It's more than obvious that he's not really okay with leaving without learning what really happened here, getting a few statements and maybe looking at some surveillance footage, and Dean gets it to a certain degree, he's dying to know how everything happened step by step as well and if perhaps something else is going on than meets the eye, but he's still got Palmer's voice in his ear, all pitiful and sorrow when he told Dean about Castiel's condition over the phone.

There is _no way in hell_ that Dean is staying behind to question some witnesses!

“We're going!” he decides. “End of story!”

Christian looks like a man who already knew that he'd be defeated right from the start. “Fine, but _I'm_ driving!” he insists. “It seemed like you wanted to commit suicide driving here and I'm not down for that!”

Dean scoffs, but he's got really no time to pick up a fight. “Fine. Let's go!”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


The hospital is a freaking mess.

Obviously there had been some traffic accident not long ago and now the waiting room and hallways are crowded with people talking and cursing and demanding to see doctors. It seems absolutely impossible to get through the huge amount of human beings blocking the way and Dean finds himself swearing at the sight in front of him. For a split second he even considers pulling his gun and forcing these people to jump out of his path, damn the consequences, but his common sense is apparently still strong enough not to pull bullshit like this.

That and Christian's warning glare because Dean's intentions had obviously been rather prominent on his face.

Dean, however, doesn't give much of a damn. He can only think about Castiel being somewhere in this building, alone and hurt and so freaking unprotected Dean feels sick even picturing it. Anything could happen at a place like this.

Hell, even his highly warded motel room hadn't been able to keep him safe.

Dean clenches his fists as he uses the power of his elbows to get to the front counter. He gets a lot of protests and harsh words by the people around, especially from those first in line at the reception, but Dean presses his fake FBI badge in all their faces, turning their loud noises into unhappy grumbles rather quickly.

“I need to see Castiel Novak!” he demands without much preamble, looking at the nurse in charge – a middle aged blonde named Julie, judging by her name tag – with an intensity that makes her recoil a bit instinctively.

“Sir -”

“Castiel Novak!”

He doesn't have time for pleasantries or any stupid games. He doesn't have time _at all_.

Julie's eyebrow twitches, evidently not happy about Dean's impolite behavior, but the sight of the badge obviously keeps her from voicing any kind of complaint. However, she huffs right into his face before turning toward the computer screen in front of her, most likely searching the information about Castiel's whereabouts.

“I'm sorry, Agent,” she says eventually, not sounding apologetic at all. “But you can't see him right now. The doctors are running some tests.”

Dean grits his teeth. “Listen, Julie -”

“I can't allow it,” she cuts in, probably so used to people bitching at her that she can read the signs effortlessly beforehand and is able to interrupt them before they're even capable of opening their mouths. “I understand your concern and I know it's an ongoing police investigation, but this is our department here and there are rules and regulations for a reason.”

Dean clenches his jaw.

The rational part of his brain knows that she's right. Castiel can't be here for long – probably only half an hour tops, perhaps even less – and of course the doctors need time to work their magic and examine the patient from top to bottom, without some concerned co-worker standing in their way and looking over their shoulder the whole time.

Dean is very aware that he's an annoying piece of shit when someone he cares about is involved.

And Julie's job isn't to keep them apart and be a cruel villain in the story of his life. No, she's simply the one who makes sure that everything runs smoothly and everyone is able to do their best.

But still …

There is so freaking much they don't know. The supernatural, witches, demons – the list is fucking endless and it drives Dean crazy just thinking about it. Castiel could be somewhere in this hospital, dying because of some spell or curse, surrounded by doctors who haven't got the foggiest what is even happening right in front of them. They would desperately search for some normal solution, something plausible, and naturally never consider something otherworldly might be going on.

Castiel could be dying, right now, while Dean would be arguing with the nurse!

“You don't understand,” he urges, leaning closer and ignoring her scowl. “There are things happening here – I'm not sure your doctors are able to figure it out in time. But _we_ – we dealt with this shit before!”

Julie narrows his eyes. “I can assure you, our doctors are very capable –”

“I don't doubt that for even a second, okay?” Dean interjects. “There is definitely a reason they're employed here after all, right?” He takes a deep breath. “It's just – they could benefit from our knowledge. We could save some precious time.”

Julie's features stay unmoved, but a small glint appears in her eyes. “Agent, I can't just –”

“ _Please_ let us talk to one of his doctors!” Dean says, wincing at the pleading tone in his voice. “We could help solve the situation faster. That'd be in your interest too, am I right?”

Julie scrutinizes both of them intensely. “So you might have valuable information concerning Mr. Novak condition?”

Dean nods sharply and Christian behind him makes some sound of confirmation while simultaneously glaring at the guy who stood first in line before Dean pushed him aside.

In the end, Julie sighs. “Well, the sheriff told us to work with you …” She grabs the phone next to her, already dialing a number. “Go through that door over there, on the right you'll find a waiting area. The doctor is gonna be with you shortly.”

Dean opens his mouth to add something more – though he's actually not sure what –, but Christian mumbles a quick thanks and drags Dean toward the appointed place before Dean's brain is even able to catch up.

“You think there is really something we can do?” Christian asks as soon as they're out of earshot. “We don't even know what happened yet!”

“Well, Cas obviously wasn't just stabbed in the back or something,” Dean argues. “They wouldn't need to run some stupid tests to figure out _that_. All I know is what Palmer told me on the phone: That Cas was unconscious when everyone arrived at the scene.”

At the motel room. Which Dean deemed safe enough to leave Castiel all by himself.

Probably the stupidest mistake he ever made.

“So what do you suggest?” Christian asks.

“We're making it up as we go,” Dean grumbles. “And hopefully get the opportunity to shoot some witches.”

It's not the best of plans, but it sounds solid enough for now and Dean is way too emotional to come up with something better.

Christian, however, just grunts. “I'll call Mary and let her know what's going on. That way everyone else will be informed in no time at all.”

Dean just nods, knowing that he wouldn't be able to talk with his mother without revealing some feeling he isn't ready to share yet. Or ever.

So instead he sits down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and listens to Christian mumble into his phone while he forcefully fights back the urge to leap to his feet and search for Castiel on his own.

It takes about ten minutes until a woman in a doctor's coat suddenly appears next to them out of freaking nowhere.

She's young, that's the first thing Dean notices about her. It's most likely not so long ago since she graduated from school, all eager and determined to save people's lives. To make some small change in the world.

And she's kind of beautiful, with bright eyes and a face so perfect most likely Gods themselves marbled it to offer humanity a breathtaking gift to look at. Under different circumstances Dean would have activated his charm right away and started to flirt shamelessly, hoping for a nice outcome with a few drinks and a pleasant conversation, perhaps followed by some awesome fun between the sheets later that night, but right now he couldn't care less, to be honest.

There is nothing else but Castiel on his mind.

“You're the FBI agents?” the doctor asks, her voice strained. The bags underneath her eyes and the disarray on her head tell their own story about lack of sleep and stress due a job asking quite much from a person. Nonetheless she shakes their hands tightly as soon as Dean and Christian confirm her question. “My name is Sandra Finley. I've been told you have information regarding the patient's condition?”

Well, she honestly doesn't beat around the bush, Dean gives her that. Though she probably doesn't have time to exchange polite pleasantries.

“Maybe,” Dean says. “We're not exactly –”

He swallows, suddenly feeling a wave of emotions coming his way. That woman saw Castiel merely minutes or perhaps even seconds ago and he just – _God_ , he doesn't even know what he feels right now. He wants to ask so many questions and at the same time his brain is completely blank. For a moment he can't even remember how he got here in the first place. Did they take Christian's car? The Impala? He's got no clue whatsoever and that scares him more than anything.

So in the end he blurts out, “How is he?”, knowing fairly well that he sounds way too desperate.

Doctor Finley blinks a few times, but doesn't show any sign of surprise at Dean's tone. “Well, it's hard to tell, I'm afraid –”

“We need to learn everything you know,” Christian pipes in. “We – well, we've seen a lot of stuff you wouldn't even believe and our experts at headquarter are more familiar with this kind of situation than you are. No offense, of course.”

“None taken,” the doctor says, smiling slightly. “My colleagues might be too proud to admit it at this point, but so far no one came up with a decent diagnosis and I'm willing to use every resource available to help my patient.”

Dean really likes her. She's not one of those “I've got a PhD, so you don't have to tell me anything”-types and he finds himself entirely grateful for that. He wouldn't have had time for such bullshit.

“Mr. Novak …” She licks her lips, obviously considering her next words. “When he arrived here, he wasn't responsive. He showed no signs of reaction to anything we tried. It didn't take long for us to realize that he obviously fell into a coma.”

Dean feels his blood run cold at these words.

“Coma?” he croaks.

His legs suddenly feel too weak for his weight and for a split second he fears they would give up their duty and make him collapse right on the spot. It takes him a great deal of self-control to not let that happen.

“How …?” Dean's voice is tiny, vulnerable, and he hates it.

Doctor Finley sighs deeply. “That's the most important question,” she says. “Usually there is some huge shock to the system involved. A massive heart attack, a severe trauma, a head injury. But with Mr. Novak – there seems to be _nothing_ so far.”

Nothing from a human, non-supernatural perspective, at least.

Dean feels impossibly sick all of a sudden.

“The police notified us there had been some kind of attack, but it appears that accusation is only based on a witness statement,” the doctor continues. “From a medical point of view – well, there are no grounds for something like that. Mr. Novak's got no injuries, no scratches, no bruises, no signs of any kind of struggle. And even after some tests –” She rubs her forehead, most likely to fight back a headache. “Some kind of head trauma would have been my first guess, but his head scan showed up completely fine.”

Christian folds his arms across his chest. “So what are you saying? That Castiel just fell into a coma out of the blue? Just like that?”

Doctor Finley shakes her head vigorously. “No, of course not. We're still in the process of running some tests. And if it seriously had been some violent attack, there are a lot of things to consider. Maybe some poison or something. I mean, sure, his first blood test came back without any results, but still …”

It's absolutely clear that she doesn't have a single clue what might be going on, why a healthy man just dropped like that, and she obviously sincerely hopes that the FBI – or what she believes to be the FBI – would be able to give her the right input to solve this mystery.

“So there is nothing wrong with him?” Christian asks. “Apart from Novak being in a coma, I mean?”

Finley pulls a face. “Well, his brain activity is unusually high.”

Dean can't help but snort at that. “He's a clever guy,” he explains, detecting some fondness in his tone he actually didn't intend to put there. “His brain is working like _all the time_.”

Obviously even during a coma.

Figures that the guy doesn't know how to make it stop even in a situation like that.

But the doctor shakes her head. “It's not that,” she disagrees. “The activity … it's way higher than usual, especially when we're talking about a coma patient here. It's as if – as if he's calling up hundred different memories at the same time.”

Dean frowns. “That sounds … like a lot of work.”

Finley nods. “It actually sounds a bit like it's been _way_ too much work for his system which eventually decided to shut down.”

It's clear that she's not entirely convinced by her theory. And Dean can't exactly blame her, she probably never encountered something like that during her studies. As far as he knows black magic isn't a common school subject yet.

“So if you've got any idea what might have happened to him, we'd be grateful,” Doctor Finley states, her eyes so fucking intense that Dean feels a shiver running through his body. “The more input we get, the faster we might solve this one.”

Christian nods in agreement. “We need all the tests results you've got so far. Our expert back at home base would know what to do with them.”

They continue to talk, using medical terms left and right and trying to coordinate their next steps, but it turns into a static background noise for Dean soon after. He feels numb all of a sudden. So hollow and tired. The adrenaline that pushed him forward since the sheriff's call is obviously wearing off, leaving an exhausted man behind.

But at the same time he can't make himself take a break and maybe drop onto one of the stiff chairs at the waiting area. He's too far away from any kind of finish line.

And there is one question, more important than anything else …

“Is he gonna make it?”

Dean dreads the answer. _So much_.

But he can't ignore it. Facing reality has always been a valuable rule in the hunter business.

Even when reality turns out to be a cruel bitch.

Doctor Finley's features soften as she looks at him. It's plain as day that no one needs to tell her that Dean isn't simply wondering about a mere colleague's well-being but about something on a much more personal level.

“His vital signs are quite good so far,” she explains. “It's only … we don't know how much long-term damage his brain might have suffered. Perhaps nothing at all, but we have to face the possibility –” She halts, lowering her gaze for a split second. “We can tell for sure when he wakes up.”

 _IF he wakes up_ , she doesn't say.

Dean feels his chest constrict in a very uncomfortable way and he has to shut his eyes for a moment and take a deep breath to gather at least a little bit self-control. He can't afford to have a freaking breakdown right next to an old vending machine.

“Can I –?” He stops himself, swallowing. “Can _we_ see him?”

The doctor reaches out and squeezes his wrist in a reassuring manner. “We have to run some last tests. After that, _of course_.”

It probably won't take that long in the end, but even having to wait for a few more minutes seems like hell to Dean. He wants to see Castiel _immediately_. Make sure with his own two eyes that the situation isn't as hopeless and horrible as it feels right now.

And though he knows the whole thing is necessary for Castiel to get all the help available, being forced to stay in the background is gonna be absolute torture! Dean can't imagine getting out of this unscathed.

And with the big pile of guilt pressing on his conscience he's not sure he even wants to.

  
  


  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, I'm still an evil cupcake for making Dean suffer like that and not have him see Cas yet <.< But this chapter got really out of hand word count wise and I didn't want to rush the very emotional reunion scene I have planned!
> 
> But next time, I promise :D


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every instinct inside Dean screams to ignore every single hospital regulation and storm the castle. Get to Castiel right away and make sure he's actually moderately okay.
> 
> -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!
> 
> Here we are again :D
> 
> I'm really sorry it took longer this time, but work was killing me last month and then I had to get myself a nice virus infection as well (because why not), so yeah, I sadly hadn't that much time and/or energy to keep writing this story.
> 
> Which was really freaking awful since I love it so much ;_____________;
> 
> But hey, I'm back, my schedule looks far better than last month and I'm more motivated than ever :)) So let's do this!!
> 
> -

It feels like time itself starts to slow down as soon as Doctor Finley leaves them.

Every instinct inside Dean screams to ignore every single hospital regulation and storm the castle. Get to Castiel right away and make sure he's actually moderately okay.

The doctor seemed to be confident enough that Castiel isn't on the verge of dying and Dean knows she's got no reason to lie or at least downplay the situation because she's most likely quite aware that she is right in the middle of a police investigation and she has no time for sparing someone's feelings. Coordinating with the authorities is part of her job description as well, Dean figures.

So yeah, they have quite a clear picture concerning Castiel's condition.

At least from a regular, human point of view.

But there are so many things these people don't know and Dean can't shake off the picture of the doctor's confused face as she told them about the coma that apparently came out of nowhere. They have no clue what might be going on and it's driving Dean _insane_.

Only the fact that Christian next to him is glued to the phone, reading Castiel's patient's file a nurse just gave him a few minutes ago and passing the information on the the Men of Letters right now, keeps Dean from going berserk and destroying some stuff in order to get to Castiel.

It's not like they could do anything else at the moment than send headquarters every detail they have and wait for the brainiacs at the bunker (and probably any other base in the country) to figure this shit out.

Still, Dean hates to feel so powerless.

He hates the feeling of his world tumbling down.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


In the following thirty minutes Dean's phone rings several times.

He's actually way too numb to master a simple conversation, so every single time he passes his cell to Christian, ordering him to deal with this shit. And his cousin, oh wonder, seriously complies instead of making a fuss about Dean using him as his secretary.

And Dean can't help wondering how fucking pathetic he must look that a heartless bastard like Christian doesn't complain.

The news about Castiel's situation obviously spread fast and wide. It's not just Sam and his parents calling to wonder about their friend's well-being (and about Dean's, too, as the hunter can easily guess by the glances Christian throws in his direction while talking with his family in hushed whispers) but also hunters and Men of Letters Dean barely knows by name. Friends and colleagues of Castiel, so it seems, worried out of their minds and offering their help.

And Dean curses the day he gave his okay for his cell phone number to be saved in the Men of Letters database.

Christian doesn't seem overly happy about that either, but instead of complaining he dutifully answers every single call, eases people's minds with a calmness Dean actually didn't expect of him, and urges everyone to do their best to help since “one of our own has been attacked.”

Christian's never been a fan of the Men of Letters and he didn't even appear particularly fond of Castiel the one time they met, but nonetheless he can't accept some supernatural creature running around and assaulting their allies. Dean is surprisingly glad to have him by his side right now – a thought he never expected to cross his mind anytime soon.

Or ever.

But without Christian to act as the voice of reason Dean probably would have already kicked in doors in a desperate and quite reckless attempt to get to Castiel somehow. Usually Dean tends to think rationally before going into motion (an important skill if you wanna survive as a hunter), considering every future step and the possible consequences, however, right now his brain doesn't seem to function properly.

He wonders if it ever will again.

“I think you should take this.”

Christian's voice jerks Dean out of his chain of thoughts and he blinks a few times, startled, before his mind slowly finds its way back to the here and now. He rises his gaze, his heart making a jump at the urgency in Christian's tone. He stares at the phone the hunter is offering him and feels his throat clench painfully.

“What is it? Did they find anything?”

Did Sam or some other nerd discover a miraculous cure that would heal Castiel in no time and have him back at the motel room at lunch time? Were they really that lucky?

Christian's face, however, turns rather grim. “It's not the Men of Letters.”

Dean doesn't like his cousin's expression _at all_ and something dark starts to creep inside his chest. “Who is it?”

Christian shoves the phone into Dean's hand and announces, “Well, I never thought I'd ever be able to say these words, but the King of the Crossroads obviously wants to speak with you.”

Crowley.

Dean takes a sharp breath and wastes no time pressing the phone to his ear and hissing, “Tell me you didn't do it, you _fucking son of a bitch_!”

The numbness in his limbs disappears all of a sudden like it never existed and is replaced by a boiling rage inside his body that makes him dizzy due to its abruptness and sheer force. It's like a switch has been turned rather violently and for a moment Dean needs to concentrate on not letting his muscles cramp too hard.

Meanwhile, Crowley chuckles like Dean just made the best joke ever, obviously not at all inclined to take the situation at least somehow seriously. “Am I supposed to be offended by that? I'm actually the first one to agree with you that my mother was _indeed_ a bitch.”

Dean rolls his eyes. He's got seriously no time to get into a demon's family history. “Just tell me already!” he demands. “Because I'm very angry and quite trigger-happy and I'd love to shoot someone in the face, you know? I wouldn't mind it being you.”

Crowley laughs. “You're ridiculously kinky, Winchester.”

Dean grinds his teeth. He's just moments away from losing every last bit of self-control and he's honestly too far gone to even care. He's only able to think about how good it would feel to trash this ugly waiting room like a mad man out of his mind.

“Did you do it?” the hunter asks, his jaw clenched so hard his face starts to hurt. “Did you hurt Cas?”

Crowley stays silent for a minute, obviously considering his next words. “I am where I am because I'm not stupid, Dean. I'm a _businessman_.” He emphasizes the term like there is nothing more important. “You and your little entourage serve a purpose to me. You're at least valuable enough right now for me to even bother with your existence. So why would I jeopardize that by attacking your precious boyfriend? That wouldn't make any sense.”

Dean scoffs. “You're a _demon_. You don't make sense!”

“You shouldn't stereotype, my friend.”

Dean feels something dark and cold constrict his chest. “I'm not your 'friend'!” he clarifies. “And it wouldn't be the first time a demon lost any kind of common sense. I saw the way you were looking at Cas in that bar. And now, not even twelve hours later, he's in a fucking hospital?” He huffs. “I don't believe in coincidences.”

Crowley sighs in a way as though he's dealing with a petulant teenager. “I admit that Castiel is an interesting member of your species, but _seriously_? He pales in the face of _my bloody souls being missing_!” His voice suddenly turns so loud that Dean finds himself flinching. “I need allies, not some firm asses. I have better things to do right now.”

He sounds sincere enough, but Dean never before tended to trust demons and he won't start now of all things.

“I don't believe you.” His voice is barely a threatening whisper now.

“You're one sodding suspicious guy, aren't you?” Once again Crowley seems way more amused than for his own good. “Okay, I can get behind that. I will actually take that as a compliment since you obviously think that I'm capable of breaking into Castiel's highly warded room.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “So you know about the room being protected?”

Crowley sighs deeply. “ _Of course_ it is,” he says. “Castiel is apparently a very skilled bloke, so no surprise there. And let's be honest, no Man of Letters would stay at one place without pulling a few wards up. It's not a far stretch to think that. Same goes for hunters as well.”

Dean can't exactly argue with that. It's a safe assumption that isn't supposed to let anyone's warning bells go off.

“Besides, before I approached you two at the bar, I had to gather some information about you,” Crowley continues. “I never go into a deal unprepared. And during my research I naturally noticed your motel room being so efficiently protected that I actually felt some nausea just by standing in the parking lot. Your boy toy did a fairly fine job there. No demon would have been able to cross that wall and _You. Know. That_!” He snorts. “Don't you?”

Of course Dean does. He saw the countless demon's traps and runes that Castiel put on the walls merely minutes after they arrived at this town, too. It should have been perfectly safe against any sort of demon, even the higher ranked ones you usually hear horror stories about. Castiel is a freaking expert and there is no doubt in Dean's mind that he made every effort possible to turn their room into a safe haven, similar to the bunker.

And that makes the whole thing much more uncomfortable.

“So what the hell was capable of breaking into such a fortress?” Dean can't help wondering for the millionth time. It's driving him totally nuts. “Crazy witches with the power of hundred souls perhaps? Or something else entirely?”

“Well, you can definitely scratch the souls from your list,” Crowley offers instantly.

Dean raises a brow. “Why?”

“I just visited the crime scene,” the demon explains, completely unfazed. “The wards are still in working condition, I couldn't get very close because of them. As far as I was able to see nobody tempered with them or even tried to. They stayed totally unharmed by whoever entered the room and attacked your beloved Castiel.” There is a slight shuffling noise when Crowley changes the position of his phone. “However, if seriously a soul-powered witch would have attempted to break in, the damage would have been far more visible. So much energy in one place would have been destructive in a way you can't even imagine, my little human friend. There is no way in hell that the souls came even close to your motel. The whole bloody block probably would have exploded or something.”

Dean really has no clue if he should feel relieved by that information or not.

“No idea who brought us into this mess,” Crowley continues while Dean can't help cringing at the word _us_. “But I can help you finding out, we're allies after all.”

“I've never agreed to your truce proposal, remember?” Dean grunts. It makes him sick even _thinking_ about it. “And I've got more than enough backup, thanks.”

“No one like me, hunter,” Crowley counters, sounding way too self-conscious. “I could take a look at your precious boyfriend –”

Dean cringes at the thought. “Don't you _dare_ come even close to him, do you understand?”

The demon laughs good-naturedly. “Fine, fine, for now I'll hold back. But you may call anytime, love. After all, a creature powerful enough to ignore Castiel's wards most likely didn't just give him a bump to the head, right?”

Dean grits his teeth. He really doesn't like the tone of Crowley's voice. “We've got everything under control,” he says, not giving a damn that he's lying big time right now.

The truth is, Crowley could probably determine what's wrong with Castiel merely by looking at him, but Dean never in his life relied on a demon before and he honestly won't start now. He can't forget the way Crowley looked at Castiel in that bar and to even _imagine_ he might owe that bastard some kind of debt is way too much for him to handle.

No, there has to be a better way.

There just _has_ to.

“But don't wait too long, Winchester,” Crowley says. “We don't wanna see your lovely boy toy die because you're a foolish pighead, right? That'd look bad in your resume.”

Dean clenches his fists, more than ready to use some violence.

That _scumbag_!

Dean inhales deeply and is about to open his mouth to give that goddamned demon a piece of his mind when Christian suddenly appears right next to him, looking all kinds of alarmed as he grips Dean's shoulder tightly. “We might have a problem!”

The hunter tenses instantly. “I've gotta go,” he tells Crowley and shuts his phone without waiting for the douche's response. “What's going on?” His heartbeat does a jolt straightaway and Dean leaps to his feet before he even registers what he's doing. “Did something happen with Cas?”

Dean noticed Christian discreetly slipping toward the coffee machine down the hallway when he started to talk with Crowley – most likely not very keen to overhear a conversation with a _fucking demon_ of all things – and whatever he saw or heard there obviously shook him up quite good.

“Gwen just called me,” Christian explains. “She is currently at the crime scene with some other hunter and collects evidence.”

 _Crime scene_.

God, just mere hours ago that had been the place Dean lived in for the time being. Rather contently, as far as housing with a Man of Letters while being on a witch hunt goes.

And now?

Now everything is turned upside down and Dean can barely stand it.

“They talked with that witness, too,” Christian continues. “Obviously the guy that occupies the room right next to yours. He heard some weird noises and wanted to check them out, finding the door to your room wide open and suddenly being confronted with … uh, with the attack.”

He seems a bit unsure as though he fears that Dean would lose his marbles if he didn't watch his words carefully.

“The witness didn't see that much,” Christian says. “He can't even tell whether the attacker was a man or a woman. He only saw some person in a mint green hoodie cornering Castiel. He probably didn't even realize at first that a crime was happening right in front of him. He called attention to himself and obviously that startled the perpetrator so much that they ran away instantly.”

Dean finds himself frowning. That actually doesn't really sound like a powerful supernatural being. Creatures like those normally don't flee from unarmed humans.

“The video footage of the parking lot doesn't show much either.” Christian starts to fidget, looking rather nervous. “So we thought it's a dead end, not much to go from there. But then I talked with Kristy over there.”

He points at a young teenage girl standing by the vending machine, apparently highly annoyed by the device's failure in offering her some candy without making a huge fuss.

“You remember why the emergency room was so packed when we arrived here?” Christian asks.

Dean creases his forehead. Why was that important right now? “Some accident, I think.”

“Exactly, just one block from here actually,” his cousin says. “Someone ran across the street without looking, causing a major multiple crash. They had to close the whole street.”

Dean vaguely recalls Christian having to take a slight detour on the way to the hospital because some police cars blocked the way.

“Okay …?”

“They didn't catch the person responsible for this mess, but they did get a bunch of witness statements. They all said the same: that some person in a mint green hoodie crossed the road and didn't give a damn about traffic regulations.”

Dean's eyes widen when he understands what Christian is getting at.

“That bastard caused the accident?” he presses through gritted teeth. “Just a block from here?”

Dean realizes what that means. It's probably not a coincidence that the person was spotted so damned close to the hospital.

Not a coincidence at all.

“I think they figured that Castiel would be taken to the hospital,” Christian says. “And they came here to … well, uh.”

Finish the job.

Hurt Castiel. Maybe even kill him.

Dean moves without hesitation, his hunter instincts kicking in right away. There is no way in hell that he'll acknowledge any kind of hospital rule now in the light of these new information. He rushes into the direction where Doctor Finley went to last, only barely registering Christian following him on the spot, and immediately grabs the first person that crosses his way.

“Where is Castiel Novak?” he demands urgently, probably giving the poor nurse quite a scare, but being way too agitated to care. “We _need_ to see him. It's life or death!”

The woman stares at him with big eyes. “Um …”

“Agents!” another voice suddenly calls from the end of the hallway and Dean instantly identifies her as the doctor. He lets go of the girl and runs toward her while Christian is quick to mumble an apology to the nurse before following his lead.

“I was just about to call you,” Finley informs them, obviously a bit confused what she just might have witnessed. “We've still got some tests running in the lab, but Agent Novak is free to have visitors now.” She looks at the nurse who takes to her heels rather fast. “What's going on?”

“There is a real chance that the perpetrator entered the building, most likely to seek out Novak,” Christian explains the situation. “He needs protection right away.”

Dean is on the verge of demanding to know where they took Castiel, but suddenly he notices two broad shouldered police officers guarding a door a little further down the hallway and every single question on the tip of his tongue turns redundant all of a sudden. The Sheriff apparently left a few of his guys behind at the hospital to watch over the injured FBI Agent and though they probably don't stand a real chance against anything supernatural, Dean nonetheless feels some relief flooding his system.

He flashes them his fake badge as soon as he reaches them.

“Agent Barkes?” one of the men asks him, studying Dean's credential quite frankly a little bit too close for comfort. “Sheriff Palmer told us you were coming.”

Dean nods curtly. “We've got reason to believe the attacker might be in the building. At least someone was spotted nearby that fits the description.”

The two officers share a quick look. “We will inform the department right away. Don't worry, sir, your partner is in good hands.”

Dean offers them a tight smile. “There is no doubt in my mind.”

A big, fat lie, of course, since there is so much doubt inside of him it almost fills the whole floor, but those guys honestly don't need to know that.

As Dean walks through the door his years of training instantly get the upper hand. He scans the room thoroughly for escape routes, weak spots and the best places to hide some wards and protection runes. According to Doctor Finley's statement Castiel's condition probably doesn't allow immediate relocation yet, so it's essential to make this fucking room as safe as possible.

Sure, it didn't do them any good back at the motel, but at least Crowley wasn't able to come near it and Dean seriously doesn't need that prick to show up at the doorstep and torture him with a smug smile. Keeping demons out doesn't seem like a bad idea.

And just when he starts to contemplate if Christian got some rock salt stashed in his car or if they have to drive back to get it out of the Impala, his gaze lands on the bed in the middle of room.

Suddenly every single rational thought flies out of Dean's mind and his emotions take over.

He hears himself gasp quietly as he looks at the person on that bed.

He already prepared himself for the worst because doctors and nurses don't give you pitiful looks for nothing, but reality is still a merciless bitch, punching him right into the guts. He expected Castiel to be pale and unconscious, he also anticipated all the machines stripped to his body, monitoring every single function of his system. Hell, Castiel probably couldn't even get some goddamned flatulence without the better part of the hospital learning about it immediately.

Yes, Dean expected a lot of things because he simply knows the game. He's been in too many hospitals already and it'll probably not be the last time.

However, he totally forgot to count in the effect the sight of an injured Castiel would have on him.

Castiel just looks … close to death.

There is simply no other words for it. Usually Castiel is so full of life. Even when he cowers in some corner of his beloved library, bending over a book about the importance of the growth of grass, and he doesn't move for hours and hours, he's still brimming somehow. It's like energy is crackling underneath his skin all the time.

Even when he sleeps (since Dean did get the privilege of watching him sleep while sharing a room with him) there is still something about him. Something vibrant and bright.

But now?

There is nothing.

Dean finds himself stepping next to the bed, on the verge of taking Castiel's hand and at the same time terrified of doing so.

“How is he?” he hears Christian's voice whisper in the background and for a second Dean thinks his cousin is talking to him and he's about to burst out, _“What do you think, jackass? Just look at him!”_ , but then Doctor Finley answers and the fight leaves Dean's body straightaway realizing his mistake.

“His condition didn't change much in the last half hour,” she explains. “He's stable so far. Time will tell us the rest.”

Dean scoffs, but she doesn't notice because Christian demands her attention yet again, asking about the remaining test results he would like to send to their colleagues at headquarter. They start to mumble, something about legal issues they have to consider first or whatever, though Dean just tunes them out, not at all keen to talk about shit like that.

Christian will deal with this. Dean only wants to stay at Castiel's side and never leave again.

He looks at the man in front of him, at the constant rise and fall of his chest, and all the guilt hits him full force once again. He tries not to, because after all it's been Castiel's decision to stay in this town despite the risks and the Man of Letters would kick his ass right now if he knew about what's going on inside Dean's head, but he just can't help himself. It's his second nature to feel responsible for everything and everyone, especially for people he cares about.

And yes, he cares about Castiel. He seriously not ashamed to admit that now.

It's not exactly a surprise and at the same time it is. He's got no clue whether it's always have been there, hidden behind his stubbornness, or whether it grew only recently.

He just knows that Castiel is one of the people which are closest to him (and how the hell did that happen?).

He interlaces his fingers with Castiel's before he can think better of it. As expected there is no response, no squeezing back, no warmth. Nothing.

But at the same time Dean hopes that Castiel is able to feel his presence one way or another. You hear a lot of stories about coma patients, so it's not an absolute futile endeavor.

“You're a stupid sonofabitch,” he breaths, leaning a bit closer so that neither Christian nor Doctor Finley are capable of listening in. “I told you it's too dangerous, but you fool thought you knew better, right?”

Castiel doesn't move, not even a single muscle twitches.

Dean would have given almost anything to see a set of radiating blue eyes staring right back at him.

But it doesn't happen.

“You're not allowed to die, do you hear me?” Dean hisses, the hitch in his voice probably noticeable even for an unconscious man. “That's an _order_! And I know you don't like to be told what to do, but _jeez_ , Cas, I'm the hunter here and when a situation gets out of control like this one, we jump in and take charge. You don't have to fancy it, but it's the way it is. Your superiors will agree with me.”

Dean falls quiet, finding himself waiting for the retort that usually would have followed right away. Castiel would have snorted and argued and most likely itemized several precedents in which hunters almost got Men of Letters hurt or even killed because of their recklessness and stupidity.

But instead the silence in the room becomes deafening.

Well, okay, the hushed conversation of Christian and the doctor in the background is still audible, but Dean doesn't pay them any real attention. He's only fixed on Castiel and the lack of any kind of sound or disapproving noise coming from him.

“Okay, buddy, how about you just open your eyes?” Dean suggests. “Easy as pie, alright? I wanna see those pretty baby blues of yours.”

Of course nothing happens.

A stupid pipe dream anyway, but Dean figured it wouldn't hurt to ask politely.

Before he really realizes what he's doing his thumb gently rubs over Castiel's wrist, the whole gesture strangely intimate. A slight blush creeps up his neck, but as soon as he senses his strained nerves calm a little bit at the feeling of Castiel's steady heartbeat, he figures it's not exactly the time to behave bashful and dumb.

Castiel is alive. His pulse seems to be strong and unwavering.

 _Focus on the good things,_ Dean tells himself while studying Castiel's relaxed features.

“Everything will be fine soon, okay?” Dean promises, his voice croaky. “ _I_ will make sure of that!”

He doesn't really know how to do that yet, but he guesses shooting some witches in the face might be a great start.

“They won't get away with this,” Dean whispers, making sure that the doctor is unable to accidentally overhear him. He leans closer, his breath brushing Castiel's face. “We will hunt those bastards down, one by one, if necessary. The hunters, the Men of Letters – everyone is working together on this. Hell, my stupid phone won't stop ringing.” He takes a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. “Just … just focus on waking up, alright? That's all I'm asking.”

It seems like a small request, but of course it's probably about the hardest thing he could hope for right now.

“Don't leave me hangin', man,” Dean whispers. Without letting go of Castiel's hand, he pulls a chair close and sits down, ready to stay for as long as necessary. “I can't do this without you.”

He honestly can't.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean stays the evening.
> 
> And the night.
> 
> And the next morning.
> 
> Nothing changes.
> 
> -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are again, with an extra long chapter this time :D
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> -

Dean stays the evening.

And the night.

And the next morning.

Nothing changes.

There is just a constant stream of doctors and nurses (all approved by Christian after discreetly testing them) looking all kinds of puzzled and worried while studying Castiel's file for the ten thousandth time and ordering some new tests on a regular schedule because they obviously don't have any idea what else to do.

And Dean can't even blame them. They most likely didn't encounter anything supernatural before (and Dean gets more and more convinced this is something beyond normal while watching the doctor's faces getting more and more confused) and all their clever text books are unable to help them. They probably feel as frustrated as Dean, maybe even more so.

At least Doctor Finley, who seems eager to stop by almost every hour to check on her patient, appears more harried as the night comes to an end. At some point she simply shakes her head and sighs deeply before leaving the room once again.

And Dean bets she's on the way to hit some more books, nearly desperate to get to the bottom of this.

Dean can't help feeling grateful. Yeah, she and all the other doctors probably won't find any solution, but _damn_ , they're trying. Sure, the local police and the alleged FBI are involved in this and so no one can afford to slack off, but Dean gets the feeling that they genuinely care about their patient and that's a nice thing to know.

Dean doesn't even have to play his _“I'm FBI so you don't dare tell me what to do”_ -card to people let him stay in Castiel's room. He prepared a whole speech for that, about protection and safety and the value of the case, but as soon as visiting hours ended, a nurse merely squeezed his shoulder and got him a blanket, obviously not even considering for a millisecond that Dean might leave.

Perhaps they think he's utterly devoted to his job and won't rest until his partner's attacker has been found.

Or – and that seems much more plausible to Dean – they can easily read the emotions on his face.

At least he's quite certain he isn't subtle anymore. He most likely lost that when an army of doctors caught him holding Castiel's hand and interlacing their fingers in a manner people usually don't do with their coworkers.

But Dean doesn't give a fuck what everyone might be thinking about the nature of their relationship. Let them believe whatever the hell they want – that Dean and Castiel screw each other's brains out in their free time or that they're deeply in love and about to adopt a baby –, Dean doesn't care anymore.

The only thing that matters is for Castiel to wake up.

But considering all the sorrowful expressions around him, that probably won't happen anytime soon.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


“How is he?” Sam's voice sounds a bit tentative, as though he's afraid Dean might lose his mind if he'd phrase this question somehow wrong.

They haven't really talked since everything went to shit, Dean way too occupied to drain in misery, but at some point Christian quit his secretary job with an dramatic huff, pressing Dean's phone back into his owner's hands and grumbling, “Get over yourself, I don't wanna excuse your absence anymore!”

And only fifteen minutes later Sam called and Dean never had the heart to ignore his brother.

“Don't act like I'm about to burst into tears or something,” Dean sighs. He doesn't need people to handle him with kid gloves. “Cas is … well, not _fine_ , obviously, but –”

He trails off, not really sure what to say. It's hard to keep your feelings somehow in order when you weren't really aware of their existence in the first place.

Or when you effectively ignored and repressed them in the past.

“I see,” Sam answers though, apparently still capable of understanding his brother without using much words. “But he will be okay, you'll see.”

Dean rolls his eyes. Empty reassurances is another thing he doesn't want. “Listen, Sammy, how about you stow that crap and –”

“No, no, I mean we're quite sure now what happened to Cas,” Sam cuts in hastily. “After analyzing all the data and the evidence on the crime scene and of course the test results of the hospital it seems that we _finally_ came to a conclusion. It seriously hasn't been easy, especially with those douche Men of Letters from Boston who seem to suffer from some God complex and delayed our whole research by _hours_ –”

“ _Sam_!” Dean interrupts harshly. He already doesn't wanna hear about the inner process of the organization on a good day and _now_ he really doesn't have time for that bullshit. “Just tell me!”

“Oh yeah, right, sorry,” Sam replies sheepishly. “We're quite sure that someone tried to read Castiel's mind. Forcefully.”

Dean blinks a few times. He's gotta admit he didn't expect _that_.

“His mind?” he wonders.

“Yeah, well, it fits,” Sam explains. “Especially with that high brain activity right after the attack.”

Dean remembers Doctor Finley being quite puzzled about that, saying that it looked like Castiel would be calling a fuckload of different memories simultaneously. It makes kinda sense now if those geniuses in headquarter are actually right about that.

And Dean feels his chest constrict.

Castiel values the knowledge inside his head almost as much as the knowledge he's about to gain in the near or distant future and _to think_ that some damned scumbag decided to cross that line rather violently and hurt Castiel in that way – it makes Dean sick to his stomach.

“He fell into a coma … because someone read his mind?” Dean heard stories, of course, of people trying to get access to the thoughts of other people by using questionable methods. Hell, even the Men of Letters used this once or twice if the matter had been quite pressing and there had been lives at stake.

But he never encountered stories of people losing their consciousness for more than a few minutes.

“Someone _tried_ to read his mind,” Sam corrects. “We don't think they were very successful with that.”

“How do you know?” Nobody can't be really certain if that witness startled the culprit mere seconds after the attack or maybe even half an hour later. Hell, maybe that son of a bitch waited in a dark corner until Dean left the motel before taking Castiel by surprise.

Castiel could have been in the hands of that filth since Dean took off to meet Christian.

 _God_.

“That douche maybe got a few glimpses, but not the whole story,” Sam says, voice unwavering. “Mind-reading spells are really taxing and time-consuming, you can't do it in five minutes and download a person's entire memories. _Besides_ , it's not only the room Castiel warded.”

Dean raises a brow. “What do you mean?”

But as soon as he voiced his question, the answer came to him straightaway: The tattoos on Castiel's body.

Nice to look at ( _really_ nice to look at, in fact), but also essential protection work. Even the huge ass wings on his back have over a dozen different runes interlaced. And it doesn't take a genius to guess that probably at least one of them is meant to protect the person from unwanted interference with the head.

“His tats,” Dean says.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. There is some hesitation in his voice, like he's wondering how much Dean knows about Castiel's body art, but he's seemingly not very eager to ask further questions at this point and instead continues, “They're quite effective and powerful. The charm necklace I gave you eons ago, it's of a similar kind.”

Dean looks down automatically, studying the leather cord around his neck that's decorated with several occult pendants. Once upon a time Sam explained every single function to him while handing his brother the necklace and drilling it inside his head to never lose it or let it out of his sight for long, but the hunter can't for the hell of it recall which pendant serves which purpose. The only thing important is to keep it close.

Dean knows that a lot of hunters working with the Men of Letters got such protection wards shaped as necklaces or bracelets. Most of them are also encouraged to make them more permanent – like tattoos –, but of course in the end it's the hunter's decision and no one else's.

Dean repeatedly thought about hitting some tattoo parlor at some point, but most of the time it slipped his mind and he never really got around to go through with it.

It seems as though he should seriously consider changing that.

“We guess that Cas fell into a coma 'cause the spell the attacker used and the counter reaction of the tattoos turned out to be too much for Cas' body,” Sam says. “It's not exactly what's supposed to happen, of course, but if that bastard was indeed _really fucking strong_ and the tattoos thus required more energy to protect Cas … well, it's fair to assume that all of that overloaded Cas' system.”

Dean grinds his teeth. He feels bile rising his throat even imaging that.

 _Jeez_ , he seriously can't wait for that motherfucker to show their ugly face and give Dean a chance at shooting their head off!

“So you think that's what happened?” Dean can't help asking nonetheless.

“According to the data and the witness statements, the chances are 99.9%,” Sam states, sounding as confident as he can get. “And that's a good thing.”

Dean stares at Castiel's motionless body and feels his gut clench uncomfortably. “How the fuck is that a good thing?”

“Because it means it won't be long for Cas to wake up soon.”

Dean perks up at those words. “You're sure?”

“Positive,” Sam confirms, the smile on his lips audible. “Cas' case is rare, but not unique. It's been a few times in the past that hunters fell into a coma after a similar attack. They woke up shortly after. At least it didn't take longer than 24 hours.”

Dean glances at the clock on the wall. The whole freaking mess happened around seventeen hours ago.

So does that really mean …?

Dean finds himself sighing in relief. That little spark of hope is far more than he expected.

Sure, he won't erupt into euphoria and throw a freaking party just yet , but the certainty in Sam's tone is kinda reassuring, especially after seeing that long parade of concerned faces all day and night.

Maybe he'll seriously see Castiel's blue eyes again just in a few hours.

Talk to him.

Argue with him about something absolutely unimportant.

It sounds like heaven to Dean's ears.

“There is yet another thing,” Sam pipes in suddenly, jerking Dean out of his thoughts. “And I don't know if you're okay with this, you're not obligated to follow through or anything, so don't worry –”

Dean rolls his eyes because it sincerely seems like his brother is determined to ramble for another ten minutes. “What it is, Sammy?”

Sam takes a deep breath. “It's about Jimmy. We had to notify him about what happened and, well … he asked to speak with you.”

Dean frowns. There is something prickling in the back of his mind, but somehow his head feels like cotton since last night and he's barely able to hold a straight thought for longer.

“Jimmy?” he wonders.

“Cas' brother,” Sam explains. “Like I said, we had to notify him since he's Cas' next kin. Though he didn't seem overly surprised. Obviously his daughter gets a phone call by Cas every night and when he didn't call last night, Jimmy already figured that something might have happened. He tried to reach his brother several times, but I guess Cas' phone is still with the cops, am I right?”

 _Shit_.

Dean totally forgot about Castiel's family and the daily phone call.

Now he can't help imagining young Claire glancing at her phone every few seconds, wondering why her uncle wouldn't call at 8 PM sharp as he normally did all these years before, and her slowly beginning to worry the more time went by because she sure as hell knew what Castiel had been up to these days. Admittedly, Castiel apparently never really mentioned his locations or any specifics about the case during their conversations, but according to everything Dean heard so far about the girl she's far from stupid. She's perfectly aware that her uncle isn't picking some flowers and singing happy songs.

“He wants to speak with me?” Dean asks.

He's not sure he'll able to do that. He's never been good with consoling people and in this special case he's actually emotionally involved as well. He can't picture himself keeping a cool head.

“Yeah,” Sam answers, sounding a bit reluctant. “I mean, I told him the whole medical side, but I guess he'd like to speak with someone who's actually _there_ , you know?”

Dean finds himself nodding. He seriously get's Jimmy's point of view here. It's one thing to hear some technical terms, but the personal and human part is as much as important, perhaps even more.

“Okay, fine,” Dean agrees. “Text me his number, I'll call.”

“You will?” Sam seems genuinely surprised by his brother's lack of resistance.

Dean rolls his eyes at Sam's tone. Granted, he's indeed not really in the mood for speaking with the guy and deep down a tiny voice reminds him that there are far more pressing matters at hand than chatting with relatives, but Dean finds himself picturing himself in Jimmy's shoes. Being informed about your brother being hurt and having no opportunity to do anything about it – it seems like the worst thing imaginable for Dean.

So yes, he'll suck it up and get over himself for five minutes because that's what Jimmy and also Castiel deserve.

Even though Dean has got no clue what to say to the guy.

Nonetheless he says his goodbyes to Sam and instantly dials the number his brother send only a moment later.

It rings several times before a deep voice answers, “Hello?”

It's not as deep as Castiel's. There is probably _no one_ on this fucking planet with such a gravelly, deep and rather sinful voice like the Man of Letters.

But Dean instantly notices family similarities. Jimmy's voice is a bit softer, not as earth-shattering, however, he can't deny his relations with Castiel. That one day Dean actually met Jimmy by mixing him up with Castiel without even noticing it, he'd probably spotted his mistake straightaway as soon as Jimmy would had voiced one single word.

“Uh, hi,” Dean answers. “This is Dean Winchester.”

“Dean!” Jimmy exclaims as if he's talking to an old friend instead of some stranger he only saw once years ago. “It's so good to hear from you. Thank you for calling.”

“No big deal,” Dean waves him off. “It's … the least I could do.”

And it sure as hell is. He left Castiel all alone in that motel room, let him be injured and didn't even manage to find that fucking bastard responsible for all of this.

Talking to Jimmy is _seriously_ the least he can do.

Jimmy, however, doesn't seem to think that way. “Oh, don't say that, Dean. As soon as Sam mentioned that you were by Castiel's side, I felt relieved. Right now there is probably no other person in the world I'd rather see being with my brother.”

Dean frowns. Those are honestly not the words he expected to hear. “What?”

Jimmy totally ignores Dean's audible bewilderment and continues, “I know you're having a lot on your plate right now and talking to a civilian is probably ranking very low on that list, so I really appreciate your callback. It means a lot to me.” He takes a deep breath, the emotions in that single inhale so prominent it's hard to stay unaffected by it. “I really don't wanna waste any more of your precious time. I just wanted to thank you and be on my way again.”

Dean rises his brow. “Thank me?”

“Yes,” Jimmy confirms, obviously not noticing the disbelief in Dean's tone. “I rather wanted to do it in person than via text or something. Ideally I'd say it to your face, of course, but Sam … well, he suggested I should stay as far away as possible.”

Dean makes a noise of agreement. Having civilian relatives walking around during an open investigation would be bad enough as it is, but with someone looking _just_ like Castiel, attracting all kinds of unwanted attention at the process?

Nope, that sounds like the worst idea ever.

“I mean, I _really_ wanna come over since he's my brother and I …” Jimmy halts, swallowing loudly, presumably trying to keep his emotions in check somehow.

Once again Dean feels a wave of sympathy. He can sincerely relate, it'd be the most terrible nightmare for Dean to not reach Sam while he'd be hurt and/or in some sort of danger. It would drive him nuts in no time and if Jimmy's even a little bit like Castiel in terms of stubbornness and deeply caring for his loved one's well-beings, most likely the only reason he isn't on the road yet, driving toward his brother, is the fact that he's got a family at home he has to think about.

A wife. And a daughter who would be devastated if something happened to her father, too.

Otherwise, Dean is quite sure of that, Jimmy would already be on his way

“So I'm just gonna do the only thing I can,” Jimmy continues, voice heavy. “And that is thanking you, Dean.”

Dean wrinkles his forehead. “For what?”

He doesn't really get it. What the hell did he do that this guy would sound so fucking grateful?

What the hell did Sam tell this guy?

“Listen, pal, I don't know what Sam said about me, but I'm not –”

“It's not about Sam,” Jimmy cuts in, sounding all kinds of patient now. “It's about what Castiel told me about you.”

Dean pauses for a moment. “Cas?”

“Yep,” Jimmy agrees. “You know, the thing is, Castiel's never been much of a chatterbox. You most likely noticed as well, didn't you?” Dean finds himself nodding in agreement, even if Jimmy can't see him. “So he never talked that often about his work, mainly because a lot of the stuff is classified, of course, but partly because he's just not wired that way. He just doesn't rant for hours and hours about his bosses or the horrible coffee in the break room or whatever things normal people complain about. He didn't even tell me much about his colleagues either. I mean, I know their names and certain little things about them, but nothing in particular.

“ _You_ , on the hand … I heard a lot about you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean's gaze falls onto the motionless body of Castiel right beside him and he can't help just gaping at him, hoping against all odds that the man would wake up the next second and explain himself.

Because … _what_?

Why the hell would Castiel share that much information with his brother to begin with? Did he let off some steam about the countless times Dean and he butted heads?

“Well, I guess you heard mostly complaints, am I right?” Dean starts to fidget awkwardly. “Cas and I … well, we don't really …”

He trails off, unsure what to add.

Jimmy waits calmly for a few moments for Dean to continue before eventually clarifying, “Well, he indeed complained more times than I can count. He got angry with you about your recklessness, your attitude, your lack of punctuality – just name it. I've never heard him talk so much about another person before.”

Dean scoffs. “Well, it doesn't sound very flattering.”

“You know as well as I do that it's not about that,” Jimmy counters. “I mean, he mentioned one of his bosses, Zachariah or something, to me about three times in all those years and as far as I can gather he absolutely _loathes_ the dude.”

Dean huffs. No questions asked, Castiel is clearly not a fan. As well as about everyone else in their organization with a brain and a conscience.

“But you, Dean – my brother talks about you _all the time_ ,” Jimmy says with emphasis. “And yes, he complains a lot, but underneath all of this I can tell that he really admires you. The way you care and protect people who need help, your skills as a hunter, your intelligence. He believes you to be one of the smartest guys he knows.”

Now Dean really has to snort. “Yeah, right,” he huffs. “He's surrounded by nerdy geniuses on a daily basis and _I'm_ supposed to be one of the smartest?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “He was probably pranking you when he told you that. Or drunk.”

Or both.

Because there is no way in hell that Castiel would seriously think that!

Right?

Granted, Dean is able to confess that he's quite good at strategy and he's a quick thinker if necessary (it saved his ass more than once in the past), but he can't honestly compete with the bookworms at the bunker.

Never.

“Well, Castiel seems to disagree,” Jimmy says. “I've never heard him talking about someone like that and that's a really high praise, you can bet your ass on that. And I believe in his judgment more than anything. So when Sam told me that you are there with him, I instantly remembered all the things Cas said about you. I know he's safe with you by his side.”

Dean wants to argue with him so freaking badly since there are so many things wrong with the things he claims, but hell, he can't bring himself to fight with a concerned brother who found comfort in Castiel's wild fairy tale stories. If Jimmy honestly believes for the time being that Dean is the best and brightest hunter in the whole wide world and that thought is capable of letting him sleep at night, so fucking be it.

Dean seriously doesn't wanna burden this guy any further. He's probably going through enough anyway.

So he bites his lips and tames down the urge to offer a snarky remark in return 'cause that's seems to be what Jimmy needs right now.

Some hope.

“You can Castiel ask himself,” Jimmy offers. “I mean, he'll probably be embarrassed that I even told you the whole thing, but I'll happily take the blame. The main purpose of siblings is humiliating each other, right?”

Dean breaths a croaky laugh. “Yeah …”

“So just ask Cas when he wakes up.”

Dean feels the shift of the mood immediately, the exact moment when Jimmy once again _remembers_ the situation at hand.

It feels like something cold and dark grips Dean's heart, determined to never let go.

Jimmy inhales deeply, his breath so shaky it almost sounds like he's on the verge of tears. Sometimes it's easy to get distracted for a minute or two and afterwards the _realization_ feels like a hard punch in the stomach.

Violent.

Merciless.

“I mean,” Jimmy says after a while, his voice significantly lower now, “I mean, _if_ he wakes up, of course …”

God, this whole mess must feel awful for him.

But luckily Dean still hears Sam's voice in the back of his mind. “He _will_ wake up.”

Dean tries to sounds as reassuring as possible and even achieves his goal to a certain degree. At least it doesn't seem like Jimmy detects that note of doubt in Dean's tone when he asks, “You're sure?”

No, of course Dean's not sure.

Despite Sam being so fucking convinced, Dean's always been a _“I'll believe it when I see it”_ kinda guy and he can't shut that off. He _wants_ to believe so badly, wants to be as certain as Sam and the other Men of Letters, but that just isn't him.

He's gonna stay worried until he'll see Castiel's eyes staring back at him again.

But dammit, Jimmy doesn't need to know that!

“Yes, I'm sure,” Dean says, all these years of lying paying off once again because he sounds convincing as hell. “My brother and his brainiacs, they all figured it out in record time. Cas is fine and _will_ wake up! Just wait and see.”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


But Castiel doesn't.

He doesn't wake up that day.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Or the next day.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Or the day after that.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Dean can't say he's exactly surprised by that.

Things _never_ seem to go the way they all expect.

Naturally Dean hoped and even prayed once or twice, wished to be wrong this time, that everything would work out fine and he would be able to chide himself for being such a faithless fool.

But the hours passed by and the little glimmer of hope inside Dean got smaller and smaller.

The days passed by and that hope eventually crushed and burned.

The Men of Letters don't appear to know what is happening. At first Sam mumbles something á la, “Maybe the attack was a bit stronger and Cas needs more time to wake up”, but since day three he's officially on the “I don't understand”-train.

The geniuses are already hitting the books once again and feeling quite frustrated since they had been _so sure_ the problem would solve itself.

But, as always, Castiel doesn't do what people tell him to do.

Instead he sleeps and gets paler while Dean loses any kind of sleep (apart from a few naps on his chair, most of the time in a very uncomfortable position) and gets more hopeless by the minute.

By the second.

All he can do is sitting beside Castiel's bed, telling him all kinds of stories in the (probably futile) hope that he might hear him, and fantasizing about catching the culprit and shooting them in the face.

At some point everything around him turns into some kind of blur and he only absently notices time flying by.

Time that runs through his fingers.

Like a constant stream.

With Castiel not getting any closer to waking up.

And on the sixth day Dean finally has enough.

His rather sleep-deprived brain decides to grab the business card inside his pockets and dial the number written on it while at the same time damning the consequences.

Somewhere in the back of his mind a small and very rationally sounding voice yells at him, criticizing his very stupid idea, and subconsciously Dean knows fairly well that he's probably making a huge mistake, but he's tired and desperate and he misses hearing Castiel's voice more than anything.

So when he notices the person on the other end of the line picking up his phone, Dean takes a deep breath and hears himself saying, “I _really_ hate to say this, but I need your help,” because there is honestly no time for beating around the bush.

And Crowley answers with a laugh.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it :D
> 
> And thank you so much again for your continued support, you're seriously the best!!
> 
> Til next chapter <33


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!!
> 
> Did I mention yet that you're awesome? Because you are ;D
> 
> _

Dean never thought he'd meet up with the King of the Crossroads next to an ancient looking vending machine with a snickers bar stuck between two shelves, but here they are.

A hunter so freaking desperate that he's asking a creature of Hell for help.

And a fucking demon who seems to be the epitome of smugness.

“I knew you would call sooner or later, Winchester,” Crowley says, enjoying Dean's apparent misery way too much. “In the end they always come crawling and begging.”

Dean grinds his teeth and fiercely tries to fight down the urge to shoot the bastard in the face, right here in the hospital's hallway.

“Can we _not_?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. “I didn't call you to gloat.”

Crowley smirks. “But my, that's always the best part.”

Dean clenches his fists and takes a deep breath. He knew beforehand that this would happen, that Crowley would be all gleeful and terrible and a freaking pain in the ass, and Dean loathes having to look at the bastard's wide smirk more than anything, but he's got no choice here.

This is about _Cas_.

Dean's more than capable to swallow his pride to finally see those blue eyes again.

“Let's just cut to the chase, okay?” Dean grunts. “I need your help and well … you offered before. So I'm here, asking for help.”

Everything inside of him is rebelling against those words. He feels like he betraying his whole life, his whole _being_ , by seeking out Crowley and he knows fairly well that he'll regret this sometime soon. He'll look into a mirror and wonder what the hell he had done.

Meanwhile, the demon seems to revel in Dean squirming uncomfortably. “Well, I indeed offered,” he agrees. “But of course my help comes with a price. Naturally.”

Dean grouches. He didn't expect anything else.

“You're the King of the Crossroads,” he says, his toes curling hearing his own nonchalant tone. “ _Of course_ there is a deal involved.”

His glance flickers to the door at the corner – Castiel's room –, with two bulky police officers standing right in front of it, and tries to remind himself why he's doing this. The picture of Castiel lying in that hospital bed, motionless and pale and with all those tubes inside of him, appears right in front of his inner eye and Dean can't help the emotions waving over him once again. He's been looking at the unconscious man for _days_ now, holding his cold hands and attempting desperately to elicit any kind of reaction, and he's so tired of it.

He just wants Castiel to open his eyes and complain about Dean's lack of competence.

“I won't give you my soul!” Dean states with emphasis. “But I'm open for alternative suggestions.”

Crowley huffs. “Believe me, I'm seriously not interested in your little soul. Granted, it's quite pretty and your boyfriend probably would get a boner just looking at it, but I've got another goal on my mind.”

Dean chews his bottom lip. “So what do you want?”

“The same thing I've been asking for all along,” Crowley says. “Cooperation.”

Dean clenches his jaw. It doesn't sound so bad, but he's been in this business a long time and trusting a demon is right on the top of the No-List. They're devious and manipulative and love to twist the words in your mouth until they get what they desire.

“I just want to be kept up-to-date.” Crowley lifts an eyebrow. “That's not too much to ask, is it?”

Dean hates to agree with a demon on principle, so he pulls a face and stays silent.

“I simply want you to call me when they're some news on the case, may it be the souls, the witches, whatever.” Crowley shrugs. “I hate being left in the dark, you know?”

Dean tilts his head. “That's it?”

“Well, I'd like to be called _immediately_ and not a week later, but yes, that's about it.” Crowley flashes him a wide grin. “What did you expect? That I'd ask for your firstborn?” He scoffs. “I've dealt with hunters before. It doesn't make any sense to get cocky here. We're all reasonable adults, right?”

Dean grits his teeth and tames down the urge to offer a snarky comment in response. Instead he says, “Under one condition.”

The demon listens up. “I'm all ears.”

“I will call you instantly as soon as there are any news on the case,” Dean promises, “ _unless_ me doing this would endanger the hunters, the Men of Letters or any other innocent lives somehow, directly or indirectly.”

Crowley squints his eyes. It seems that he honestly didn't expect Dean to think about that. And for a second it looks like he wants to argue with him on this one, probably pointing out that Dean would have all the power here, deciding whether a situation would be classified as dangerous or not, but surprisingly enough he doesn't open his mouth to pick up a fight but nods instead.

“Alright, fine.”

Dean studies him skeptically. “Seriously? Just like that?”

“What can I say? I'm a rational guy!”

Dean still hesitates, not trusting the things happening right now at all, but then a smile widens across his face when realization dawns on him.

“You're in big trouble because of that missing souls, aren't you?” He barks a laugh, enjoying the sight of the demon beginning to fidget now. “I bet your superiors aren't too happy about that, huh?”

Crowley scowls, obviously not delighted by Dean's power of deduction. “Do you want that deal or not? I've got no problem with letting your little Castiel die –”

“Okay, okay!” Dean cuts in, lifting his hands in defeat. “We're both getting something out of this, let's leave it with that.”

Crowley nods in agreement. “I couldn't have said it better myself.”

“So, how are we doing this?” Dean asks. “Sealing the deal and all?”

The demon's lips curl upward at these words. “Well, usually there is a kiss –”

“I'm _not_ kissing you!” the hunter interrupts sharply, flinching at the sheer thought. “There's no freaking way!”

Crowley snorts. “Fine, a handshake would be sufficient as well. Though far less enjoyable.”

Dean grimaces. “A handshake? That's all?”

“I'm the King of the Crossroads,” Crowley reminds him as if Dean somehow forgot this information in the last three minutes. “I'm taking deals very seriously. A handshake will seal the deal and I won't break the bloody contract under any circumstances! That would be honestly bad for my reputation.”

Dean recalls his old lessons, back when he's been a hunter in training. His instructor indeed emphasized that Crossroads Demons don't mess around. If a deal is made, they can't just revoke it because they feel like it. They keep to the agreement until the very end.

Even Hell has got its rules.

And honoring a contract is high up that list.

“Okay.” Dean nods grimly. “I will keep you updated unless it'd jeopardize lives along the way – apart from that son of a bitch who did this to Cas, of course – and in return you'll help me with Cas and the whole operation while at the same time not hurting or threatening any living soul.”

“Apart from that son of a bitch who did this to Cas, of course,” Crowley repeats, smirking slyly.

“Of course,” Dean agrees. “You can drag them to Hell, for all I care.”

“Then we have a deal.”

Still hesitating for a second there, Dean eventually reaches out his hand while trying not to wince as Crowley grasps it in return and for a moment it feels like something tingles underneath his skin. He keeps a straight face, determined not to show how deeply he hates the whole situation.

Although Crowley probably knows anyway.

Before he realizes it Dean finds himself opening the door to Castiel's room, with a demon right on his heels, stopping at the doorstep since the wards and demon's traps they put up everywhere inside keep him from crossing the threshold. Dean immediately heads to the nearest rune to wipe it out for the time being when he suddenly notices that they're not alone.

Doctor Finley stands next to Castiel's bed, looking at both men with a confused expression.

“Um …” Dean says eloquently, wondering how weird the situation might seem from her point of view. “What's up, doc?”

The doctor smirks at the reference. “Agent Barkes,” she says. “I thought you finally listened to my advice and got yourself some sleep.”

She has been indeed rather insistent the last few days, right next to a bunch of other doctors and every single nurse entering the room. Dean knows that he barely slept and that he looks absolutely awful and it's kinda nice that everyone is so concerned about him although he's technically not their patient. Dean feels sorta bad for disappointing her once again.

“The FBI never sleeps,” he says, winking in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Finley, however, doesn't seem amused and Dean can't help wondering how terrible he must look now. It's been a while since he watched into a mirror.

“You shouldn't neglect your own health,” she scolds. “What would your partner say if he knew you're pushing yourself into complete exhaustion?”

“He would kick your ass, mate,” Crowley pipes in, enjoying the scene in front of him way too much.

“He would,” Doctor Finley agrees, casting the demon a glance. “So how about you lie down and rest for a few hours? I'm sure your colleague here would be happy to pitch in for you. Or any of your other co-workers running around here.”

Dean grinds his teeth. He knows she's right, that basically everyone is right who are telling him the exact same thing for days now, but _now_ would be the worst time ever to take a nap.

“Your concern is appreciated,” Dean says, smiling sweetly at her. “And I promise I'll take some rest soon. I just have to discuss a few issues with my … well, my associate over there –”

Crowley does a fake salute. “The name's Crowley. Pleasure to meet you.”

“And then I'm gonna go straight to bed,” Dean promises her, ignoring the demon completely.

Doctor Finley still hesitates, especially studying Crowley and probably being fairly bewildered why he remains standing behind the threshold and making no indication to step inside the room.

And Dean's seriously not in the mood for a doctor asking uncomfortable questions. “So if you'd excuse us, the matter is quite urgent.”

He leads the doctor outside, gently touching her back and pushing her while nodding along to her stating once again that he _seriously_ needs a break. He scowls at Crowley when they pass him, but the demon simply smirks and keeps his hands to himself.

“Thank you, Doctor Finley,” Dean says when they're in the hallway. “For everything.”

She pats his arms and looks at him sympathetically. “You're welcome,” she answers. “And I know you're very worried about your partner, but getting yourself into an early grave won't help him, you know? Take care of yourself.”

Dean nods, not sure whether he's got the strength to respond, and turns around before she's got the chance to say anything else.

He quickly disables every single anti-demon ward in the room and instantly closes the door as soon as Crowley's inside.

“Your doctor friend is quite nice,” the demon comments, grinning broadly.

Dean glares at him, trying to look as threatening as possible. “Just do your magic and leave her out of it.”

Crowley seems on the verge of arguing, but in the end he obviously decides it's not worth the effort and turns toward Castiel instead. Without missing a beat he places his filthy demon hand on Castiel's forehead and starts to do his part of the deal.

It takes all of Dean's strength not to jump the demon's throat and haul him off straightaway, but he tells himself over and over that this is necessary, that this is for all their goods, that this will bring him closer to see Castiel's brilliant blue eyes looking back at him again.

So he chokes his protests and instincts down as best as possible and keeps his mouth shut.

But still …

It's one of the most exhausting struggles he's ever had.

Time begins to blur once again, leaving Dean anxious and impatient while he observes Crowley closely, despite their deal not willing to let him out of his sight anytime soon. Demons are known for finding loopholes left and right and Dean won't allow this to happen.

Not on his watch.

So he stays vigilant, tuning out the ugly feeling inside of him seeing Crowley _touching_ Castiel, and makes sure every few seconds that the gun in his belt and the bottle of holy water in his hands are ready for action at any times.

And he's so focused on the freaking demon that he totally misses the door opening and Christian entering the room until it's too late.

“So it's really true,” his cousin hisses at the sight of Crowley. “ _Dammit_!”

The gun in his hands is pointed at the demon right away and the beginning of an exorcism probably on the tip of his tongue. Christian never wasted time.

“What are you doing here?” is the first thing Dean blurts out.

He actually tried to plan this thing quite perfectly, without any interruptions disturbing their flow. So when Christian announced about forty minutes ago that he had to discuss some matters with the doctors before meeting up with Gwen, Dean took the opportunity.

He didn't expect Christian back for at least an hour.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Christian asks disbelievingly. “I just ran into Doctor Finley in the hallway and she told me about _Agent Crowley_ over there!” He shakes his head. “What the hell, man?”

He tightens the grip on his gun, apparently determined to shoot any second now. Crowley, on the other hand, doesn't appear bothered in the slightest. On the contrary, he starts to chuckle.

“You little hunter and your big egos,” he says mockingly. “Do you seriously think your weak toy will hurt me?”

Christian grinds his teeth. “We can test it, if you like.”

“Oh please, go ahead.” Crowley grins. “It's always a pleasure having men sticking things inside of me.”

Dean grimaces for a second, some horrible picture popping up in his head, before grabbing Christian's arm and forcefully pulling it down. “It's okay,” he says. “I've made a deal with him. He's here to help.”

Christian's eyes widen. “A _deal_? Are you nuts?”

Dean snorts. “I didn't sell my soul, so don't worry. It's a perfectly reasonable deal and no one's gonna get harmed, alright?”

Christian looks like he honestly fears Dean lost any kind of common sense somewhere along the way and Dean can't exactly blame him for this. He probably would have thought the same thing.

Dean's quite aware that he's acting all sorts of crazy and reckless. He _knows_ that with every fiber of his being.

But the outcome will be worth it.

“ _Dean_ –!” Christian seems about to be ready to punch some sense into Dean right here and now, next to the motherfucking King of the Crossroads watching their argument, and damn the consequences. However, before it comes down to that Dean grips Christian's wrist and pulls him toward the window to create at least the illusion of some privacy.

“I'm doing this for Cas!” Dean says with emphasis. “I'm not apologizing for trying to save his freaking life! I know it's most likely the dumbest thing a hunter has ever done before, but dammit, do you have a better idea?”

“There has to be another way!” Christian presses through gritted teeth. “One that doesn't involve _getting cozy with a motherfucking demon_!”

Dean clenches his fist. “Do you think I want this?” he snaps. “Do you think it's fun asking that scumbag for help? But we don't have another choice here.”

“It's not –”

“It _is_ the only way!” Dean cuts in impatiently. “The doctors don't know what do anymore besides waiting and hoping for the best. And that _never_ works out great for us, you know that as well as I.” He scoffs. “And the Men of Letters … they're out of ideas. They're debating for days and no one came up with a solution yet.”

“But what about … African dream roots, for instance?” Christian suggests. “Or about anything else that's not a demon!”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You think nobody thought about that before? The tattoos on Cas' body prevent anyone from entering his mind without permission. Granted, those roots aren't exactly a spell and maybe it actually _might_ work out, but we don't know. The chances that Cas' condition would get worse if he tried something like that are way higher than any possibility of success.”

And Dean seriously doesn't wanna risk damaging Castiel's brain any further. He would never forgive himself for that.

“Then we break Castiel's tattoos,” Christian suggests, a clear edge in his voice.

Dean feels himself instantly recoiling at the sheer possibility. “Seriously? You wanna grab a knife and cut him open, is that it?”

Christian rolls his eyes. “Don't make it sound so cruel! I'm merely saying that all this damned warding is so fucking effective that we can't figure out what's going on inside Castiel's head. It's _too good_!” He huffs indignantly. “But we can change that. And I'm not saying we should butcher him, for God's sake, I'm only thinking practical here. We both know how to break skin without it hurting too much or leaving a nasty scar behind.”

Dean chews his bottom lip. He hates to admit it, but on a logical level Christian isn't too far off. It hurts Dean physically to even imagine destroying Castiel's tattoos, though if it'd be the only way to save him, he'd do it in a heartbeat. He wouldn't even hesitate for a split second.

Yet still …

“We have no clue if that would work,” Dean counters. “This is _Cas_ we're talking about here, man. He probably installed several safety buttons in case some douche would ever try such a trick. Hell, it's likely not even common ink he used for his tattoos.”

Christian pulls a face. “I think you're overestimating –”

“I'm overestimating _nothing_!” Dean interjects sharply. “You don't Cas as well as I do. He's a fucking genius and there's _no way in hell_ that we would be able to break the wards by using a simple knife.”

“Dean –”

“We're trying my way first,” Dean decides. “I've made the deal already and we'd be stupid not to use that to our advantage. Crowley might figure out what's wrong with Cas and after that we'll see.”

Christian still doesn't seem thrilled by the idea. “You're such an idiot, Winchester!”

Dean scoffs. “I've never cared what you thought of me before anyway, so it's not like I'm gonna burst into tears or whatever.”

“This is the stupidest, most unreasonable –”

“If the gentlemen are about to be finished with their squabbling, I've got a few announcements to make,” Crowley's booming voice suddenly interrupts their argument.

Christian flinches like he's been slapped, glaring at the demon with a look that's so fucking icy even Dean feels intimidated by it for a second. He's obviously not happier about the situation than before and he's probably just moments away from pulling his phone out and calling every single hunter in the near vicinity for backup.

“Let's hear him out,” Dean hisses underneath his breath. “You can still kill him afterwards.”

Crowley scoffs, even the mere thought apparently amusing enough to let the edges of his lips curl up while assessing Christian from top to bottom.

“You wish, little hunter,” he mocks, chuckling.

Christian clenches his jaw and seems to seriously consider lunging forward and forgetting any common sense whatsoever, so Dean hits his chest hard to get some of that attention back.

“Just suck it up, Chris,” he demands, knowing fairly well that his cousin hates the shortened version of his name. “Let the demon talk.”

Christian remains stiff, but in the end he nods reluctantly. “Fine.”

Dean takes a deep breath, feeling every single muscle in his body tensing even more. “Okay, what do you got?”

Crowley studies Christian for a moment longer, his mind probably going to places Dean doesn't want to think about, before eventually stepping closer to Castiel's bed once again and petting the unconscious man's head like he's some kind of pet. Dean's blood boils at the sight, but he keeps himself in check. For now.

“First of all, it won't be very hard to wake up your friend,” Crowley explains. “To tell you the truth, every last doctor in this hospital could do it. Damn, I could grab a random nurse walking by this room and they could bloody do it too.”

Dean furrows his brows and exchanges a puzzled look with Christian. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“It's an artificial coma,” Crowley says, shrugging his shoulders casually as if this should have been obvious right from the start. “The better part of the people working in this building are trained to deal with stuff like that. The only thing you need is the right medication and _ta-da_ , the patient wakes up!”

Dean gapes at the demon, not sure if he seriously heard him correctly.

Is he really implying …?

“An _artificial coma_?” Christian repeats, sounding as disbelieving as Dean feels. “Are you fucking with us?”

“No,” Crowley counters. “Though I wouldn't be totally averse to the idea, I've gotta admit, you're both quite easy on the eyes –”

“ _An artificial coma_!” Dean cuts in, so not in the mood for the demon's flirtatious games. “Do you really mean –?”

Crowley nods. “A medically induced coma. Nothing supernatural going on here.”

Dean blinks a few times while attempting to wrap his head around this information. In the end he goes with, _“What. The. Hell?”_ because he's got no idea what else to say.

This can't be possible.

 _How_ the fuck would that be possible?

“That's bullshit!” Christian says through gritted teeth. “I'm quite sure _someone_ would have _noticed_ if that'd be true. You can't just put someone into an artificial coma right under so many doctor's noses!”

Dean nods along, though his gaze lands on Castiel. He's still as motionless as the last few days, nothing seems changed, but Dean feels a glimmer of hope coming to life inside of him. If Crowley's words are really solid, they could wake him up easily.

Just like that.

It sounds way too good to be true.

“It's impossible!” Christian states. “You can't just –”

He trails off and flails his arms, most likely trying to make a point somehow.

Crowley, though, doesn't look impressed. “My guess?” he asks. “Your sweet Castiel indeed got unconscious after the attack, but would have woken up on his own eventually. However, the attacker didn't want him to open his pretty blue eyes anytime soon and probably tell the whole story with accurate person descriptions and everything, so they put him in a nice little coma.” He shrugs. “I assume they tempered with the doctors' heads as well as the paperwork, so that your precious Men of Letters would get the wrong test results. It's not like you can just _see_ whether a coma is natural or induced, so changing the data would do the trick.”

Dean finds himself gravitating toward Castiel's bed, studying the sleeping man's face and hoping against all odds that he'd reveal the answer somehow just by looking.

Crowley's theory sounds crazy.

But at the same time it's not entirely delusional. Dean heard weirder stuff before.

“Okay, let's assume for a minute that this is true,” Christian says, “that would mean _constant presence_. The doctors are running so many tests even I can't keep track. That … that son of bitch would have been here _the whole time_ , manipulating, altering data, making sure that no one would see behind the facade. That means …”

Dean gets sick all of sudden when he as well realizes what that means.

“That's the second point I'd like to discuss,” Crowley points out. “When did you say the attack happened?”

Dean feels his chest clench at the demon's tone. “Six days ago.”

Crowley pulls a face. “Yeah, see … that where you are wrong.”

Dean stiffens at those words, not sure what to make of them. A part of himself doesn't even wanna know the answer.

“What do you mean?” Christian asks warily.

“The last time someone tried to read Castiel's mind …” Crowley cocks his head to one side, contemplating, “... was, well, fifteen minutes ago. Maybe twenty.”

For a moment it feels like Dean's legs are about to crumble right underneath him, leaving him a useless mess on the floor.

“What are you talking about?” Dean shakes his head in disbelief. This _can't_ be right! “ _We_ were here fifteen minutes ago! You and I … and …”

And …

And …

Dean's eyes go wide as realization suddenly hits him.

 _Doctor Finley_!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *insert dramatic music here*
> 
> ;DD
> 
> I hope you had some fun!!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, guys :DD
> 
> This time I've brought you an extra long chapter! For a second there I considered splitting it up, but then I figured you all have been so patient and Dean has suffered so much, you all deserve the second part of this chapter ;)
> 
> So have fun!!
> 
> _

“THAT. FUCKING. _BITCH_!”

Dean's not sure he ever felt _so much_ raw anger before in his life. He wants to yell, he wants to scream, he wants to punch the freaking wall until it crumbles and collapses!

He wants to tear apart this whole goddamned hospital and damn the consequences!

His whole system goes into overload as he attempts desperately to somehow contain his overwhelming emotions. He tries to remember his hunter training teaching him that you have to keep a clear head even in a rather personal situation because otherwise you might act rather recklessly and end up dead, but it's so FRIGGING. HARD.

All he sees before his inner eye is that bastard doctor, smiling at him, telling him that everything will be alright. Touching Castiel, right in front of Dean, with not a care in the world.

Dean had been _such an idiot_.

Granted, he's not stupid enough to trust every single person that's nice to him, but he felt comfortable with Christian's subtle tests claiming her harmless and his own damned gut feeling. He's usually so good at reading people and when Finley told him over and over again that he shouldn't worry and that Castiel certainly would wake up soon, she seemed so freaking genuine Dean didn't even have a choice but to believe her words.

So. DUMB.

Instead of helping them she kept on hurting Castiel – right next to Dean. He didn't even notice a fucking thing while she continued to do her witchy voodoo and make the whole thing so much worse.

_Dammit_.

“Okay, what's going on?” Christian's very confused sounding voice suddenly jerks him out of his dark thoughts. “Who are we talking about?”

Dean needs a moment to recall that his cousin doesn't have all the background information to understand Dean's knee-jerk reaction. “Doctor Finley,” he explains trough gritted teeth. “She's the one we're looking for.”

Christian blinks a few times, highly puzzled. “Finley?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “But … I tested her myself. She's nothing supernatural. There were no traces of magic on her body. Nothing to indicate –” He stops, obviously trying to collect his thoughts for a minute there and eventually coming up empty. “That doesn't make any sense.”

Dean can't help but agree.

And yet, it happened. Right in front of their eyes, in plain sight.

“She played us,” Dean hisses. “Like the fools we are.”

Christian seems like he's about to contradict, but one hard glare by Dean is enough and he chokes on whatever he was about to say. Maybe he's actually intimidated by his cousin, maybe he's just not in the mood to fight over this, but either way Dean doesn't have time to fret about the question who's to blame for this.

Not now anyway.

“We need to find her!” he says determined. “And kick her ass till next Sunday.”

He turns toward Crowley …

… and realizes that the demon is gone.

Puffed out, most likely grasping the opportunity to catch the fucker who stole his valuable souls before she'd be able to get away once again.

Dean's body tenses up when he looks at the empty spot Crowley has been standing merely seconds ago.

“ _Shit_!”

Part of himself would have been happy to let Crowley do all the dirty work and drag that Finley bitch to Hell. Dean would gladly just stand there and watch, reveling in the image of Finley screaming and kicking, very aware of what's waiting for her downstairs. Considering how mad Crowley's been about his missing souls he wouldn't hold back on giving that woman everything that she deserves and more.

Not even the things Dean would like do to her personally (and he has been dreaming about this for the last few days _nonstop_ ), could compare to the frigging King of the Crossroads and his army of demons.

She would suffer and despair and regret everything she ever did, including hurting Castiel.

So yes, for a second there Dean hesitates, wondering if he should even bother go after them. Leaving the stage to Crowley is the worst Dean would be able to do to Finley.

But then his stupid hunter consciousness kicks in.

Because however he looks at the situation, he just can't let a fucking demon run through this hospital and risk other people's lives in the process.

Admittedly, they have a deal and Crowley promised not to hurt innocent humans, but dammit, Dean is so freaking sleep-deprived he isn't entirely sure whether he somehow, maybe, missed a tiny loophole there. He figured he had more time to work out the finer details and use this thing to his advantage later on, he sure as hell hadn't anticipated to solve the culprit's identity _just fifteen minutes later_!

No one could have expected that.

“ _Fuck_!” he curses. “That's so not good.”

He looks at Castiel, ashen and motionless as before, and the urge to stay here, call some doctors and make them wake him up _now_ is so freaking strong that for a split second he considers to command Christian to gather the other hunters nearby and go after Finley and Crowley.

But then again, that bitch hurt Castiel right in front of Dean's eyes while smiling at him!

She can't get away with that!

“Okay, you stay here!” Dean finally decides, looking at Christian. “Call the doctors, put all those demon wards back up and tell Gwen and whoever else is nearby to come over! We're gonna need all the backup we can get!”

Christian pulls a face. “Are you nuts? You wanna go after them, all by yourself? We don't even know what Finley is!”

Dean's expression turns grim. He's been speculating about that since the whole thing happened and one of his theories starts to become more and more prominent.

“Oh, I think I know _exactly_ what kind of creature she is!”

And then he storms out of the room before Christian's able to stop him with his annoying rationality.

It takes Dean about ten minutes to realize that this hospital is way larger than he originally thought. The last few days he never bothered to leave Castiel's room for even a second (Christian had to actually bring over some food and clean clothes once in a while, otherwise Dean probably would have transformed into a pile of hunger and ugly smells), so he never really got the chance to look around. For a second he suddenly regrets not taking his cousin with him because Christian most likely knows every single corner of this place by now, but just a second later Dean recalls that having Christian with Castiel is way safer than anything else.

So Dean tries to help himself the old fashioned way: asking for directions.

He stops a nurse who just exists the staff bathroom and asks hastily, “Have you seen Doctor Finley?”

The nurse blinks a few times, looking puzzled. “Doctor Finley?” The guy's voice wavers and Dean notices some kind of fog covering his eyes for a split second. No question, there is some spell work involved. “She's … here?”

The man seems highly bewildered by the whole thing.

And Dean can't fight back an ugly curse. Dammit, he never even realized that Finley always visited Castiel's room all by herself (contrary to most of the other doctors who had been accompanied by at least a nurse or an intern or someone like that), he's been way too occupied with Castiel's condition to actually pay attention to such a small detail.

A mistake on his part Finley probably took advantage of.

Fuck!

Dean growls, clenching his fists until his nails dig painfully into his palm, and storms off once again to continue his search, leaving the confused nurse behind.

Everything gets so clear now, all the little clues Dean totally missed because his concern for Castiel clouded his judgment, and the blood in his veins begins to heat and boil just thinking about that.

_God_ , he really wants to wring that bitch's neck!

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


In the end it's Finley that finds _him_ instead of the other way around.

Dean's just examining an apparently barely used wing of the hospital, walking through an empty hallway, when all of sudden his whole body just _stops_.

Every single muscle in his body refuses to work anymore, no matter how much Dean tries to squirm and struggle against it. It feels like invisible chains are wrapped around him, leaving him unable to move even an inch.

And just a moment later Finley appears right in front of him, a huge grin on her lips.

_Great_.

“What did you do to me?” Dean hisses.

Finley shrugs her shoulders casually, looking all kinds of pleased with herself. “Just a little trick I taught myself 'cause I was bored that day and had nothing better to do.”

She talks about it so nonchalantly like it's the same thing as making coffee or taking out the trash. And it's probably not even a freaking exaggeration, she really seems as though the whole thing's absolutely effortless.

_Damn_ , Dean hates her.

“Look at your face!” Finley chuckles amused. “You're about to lose your mind, aren't you? All this disgust in your eyes, the fury …” She quirks her head to one side. “Though I wonder, are you angrier with me or with yourself?”

Ah hell _no_ , he seriously doesn't need a sociopath to psycho-analyze him!

“Just shut the fuck up!” he presses through gritted teeth. “Why don't you take a step closer so that I can shoot you in the face?”

Finley looks at the gun in Dean's hand with a raised eyebrow, seemingly not at all impressed. “How do you know your little weapon will have any kind effect on me?”

Dean purses his lips. “Well, considering that you're human …”

She's quiet for a moment, just studying his face as if she's looking for some answers in his features. “What makes you think that?”

Dean tightens his jaw. Her tone – right next to her expression – is condescending like the mere notion of Dean having any sort of rational thought is seriously the most ridiculous thing ever.

“I'm right, am I not?” Though he phrases it as a question, Finley probably can see it right from his face that there is no frigging doubt in his mind. He mulled this over in his head again and again, almost despairing, fretting about what the hell might have been powerful enough to get past Castiel's wards.

“The whole time we figured we'd be dealing with something hella strong,” Dean continues. “Cas' protection runes are fucking unbreakable, probably not even the Devil himself would've been capable of walking into that motel room. But _you_ … you did it somehow. And we almost went insane asking ourselves how.” He takes a deep breath. “But we were taking the wrong direction the whole time, right? We thought it must have been something extra powerful, though it's actually the other way around. Cas kept everything supernatural out of our room, even the King of the motherfucking Crossroads … but those wards didn't work on you since you're just a simple human being. Am I right or am I right?”

For a second Dean thinks she would just dodge the whole thing and limit herself to a mere raise of the eyebrow and a low chuckle, like she's dealing with a cute yet simple-minded kid, but then she bursts into laughter, looking seriously delighted.

“Well, well, look who's not only brawn but brain. You're definitely smarter than you look.” She assesses him from top to bottom, completely shamelessly. “Not surprising though, I figured there's a reason Castiel likes you so much besides your model body.”

Dean tries to clench his fist, but Finley's stupid enchantment is even denying him that little pleasure. “Who the fuck are you?”

Finley cocks her head. “Just a girl who hasn't been challenged enough in her life so far.”

Yeah, that seriously tells Dean _nothing_.

“Is your freaking name even Sandra Finley?” he can't help wondering.

She smirks. “Well, there's indeed someone called Sandra Finley working at this hospital,” she admits. “I just used a nice little spell that whenever some of her friends or colleagues look at me they'd see her face. It's not the most permanent thing – as soon as I left the room they simply forgot they ever met me in the first place –, but it got me into the right places and that's what counts.”

She grins at him as though she's expecting some sort of adoration, but instead Dean's expression turns even more grim. “What happened to the real Sandra Finley?”

She waves him off, huffing. “Oh relax,” she says. “She's in Africa for months now, saving babies or something. I've never even seen her, I just took her identity for a minute there. She won't know a thing.”

Dean honestly won't take her word for it but do some own research in the not too distant future to make sure that woman is indeed fine, though he simply answers with a dark expression, hoping against all odds that looks suddenly would be able to kill a person.

It'd be rather convenient right now.

“And I guess you feel no urge to tell me your real name and your social security number, right?” Dean pulls a face.

She chuckles amused. “Not even the guys in Harvard got my real name. What makes you think I'd give it to you?” She steps closer and straightens Dean's collar. “'Finley' is fine. I kinda like that name.”

In the meantime, Dean raised his eyebrow. “Harvard?”

She looks all kinds of casual about it. “Yeah, well, what can I say? I heard it's challenging, so I gave it a try. For a while it seemed like the right decision, but I got bored very soon.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “You cheated your way into fucking Harvard?”

“ _'Cheating'_ sounds so bad in this context,” she counters. “I only had to change my name for reasons. But the rest – the grades, the essay, the interview – was all me!”

Dean growls. Fan-fucking-tastic!

She's not just a bored little girl with too much power, but she seems to be a bored little _genius_ with too much power!

Though considering what she's achieved so far, it's not really a surprise. Not every single person on the planet who accidentally found a spell book lying around somewhere would have been able to throw Castiel off his guard.

“Okay, how is this going now?” Dean asks darkly. “You're gonna kill me or what? 'Cause, honey, I seriously hate all that gloating!”

Finley crosses her arms in front of her chest. “You shouldn't push me. I'm honestly not fond of killing people, but it would be no problem to throw you into the storeroom on the second floor.”

Dean wrinkles his forehead. That sounds like the lamest threat ever. “The _storeroom_?”

“That's where I locked your demon friend,” Finley explains, smirking.

Oh.

For a second there Dean really forgot that Crowley had been off to catch Finley right away before the hunter had been even able to finish blinking his eyes.

“You _locked_ the _King of the Crossroads_ into a _storeroom_?”

Dean can't help himself, he bursts out laughing. The image of Crowley being trapped between shelves of medical supplies, probably being all grumpy and cursing Finley in his posh British accent, is way too good to just pass.

“Damn, honey, you've got some balls,” Dean has to admit, chuckling. “But you know you practically signed your death sentence with that, right?”

Crowley had been super pissed before, with his souls missing and everything. And to put some humiliation on top of that – _damn_ , demons aren't known to be forgiving.

Finley, however, doesn't seem intimidated by that. She merely waves him off. “I've dealt with demons before. You just need the right wards and the right exorcism and that's about it.”

Dean arches a brow at her jovial tone. “It's a bit more than that.”

At least there's a freaking reason why no hunter is supposed to deal with demon activity all on their own but call for backup by fellow hunters and the Men of Letters instead. Granted, even demons have a fucking hierarchy and there's a huge difference between a low-level douchebag who likes to screw a few humans over or a high-ranked bastard with the power of all of Hell behind their backs.

“Sweetheart, I'm afraid your fancy Harvard education skipped a few chapters,” Dean says. “Do you even know what _King of the Crossroads_ even means? It's sure as fuck isn't someone standing at crossroads and waving at people, I can tell you that.”

Finley's eyebrow twitches, obviously displeased by Dean's patronizing tone. She seems like one of these people who can't stand to be lectured, even if that other person knows more about the stuff than her.

And Dean's quite sure that he's more knowledgeable in that department than she. Stealing so many souls in the first place highly indicates that she's got no real clue about Hell's rules.

“You dug your own grave,” Dean states. “You drew attention to yourself and now you will have to pay for that.”

Finley still doesn't seem happy, but she's determined to keep her expression as neutral as possible. “I know what I'm doing, but thank you for your concern.” She grimaces. “I've handled demons before, I've handled monsters before. Monsters you probably haven't even met yet.”

Dean scoffs. “I sincerely doubt that. I've been born into a hunter family that's in the business for _generations_. And _you_ – you're just a bored little girl with too much time on her hands. I mean, you don't even realize what it means to steal _Hell's souls_!” He shakes his head. “You're dead meat, baby doll. Face it.”

She steps closer, her hot breath tingling his skin. “You're kinda cute when you think you're smarter than me.”

Dean's insides start to boil. The fucking nerve of this woman!

“Don't taunt me, bitch,” he hisses. “You're on the top of my _shoot-in-the-face_ list after what you did to Cas! You're on top of _everyone's_ list!” He laughs hollowly. “It takes a lot to piss of both hunters and Hell at the same time. Congratulations on this achievement.”

She narrows her eyes, probably on the verge of answering with a snarky remark while giving no damn about Dean's words, but for whatever reason she stays silent instead, simply studying him like he's an interesting specimen of an endangered kind.

“Why the fuck did you even come back here?” Dean asks. “Why all that trouble? You probably noticed right away that Cas' warding tattoos would be impossible to overcome, so why the hell did you even try again? Because of the _challenge_?”

It doesn't make a lot of sense. Finley seems smart enough to detect a futile endeavor without much fuss. Why would she rather waste her precious time like this than steal some more souls and trap demons in storerooms?

She cocks her head to one side as if she's actually pondering over Dean's words carefully. “Well,” she says after a moment of silence, “it's not like I did see _nothing_ in Castiel's beautiful mind there.”

Dean feels his chest constrict. “What do you mean?”

“In that motel room, just the two of us, so intimately close …” She smirks, knowing fairly well that she's riling Dean up with those vivid images. “I saw a few picture inside his head. Just fleeting things. Things he _allowed_ me to see.”

“And?”

Finley chuckles. “I'm quite sure he intended to scare me off,” she tells him. “He showed me images of hunters and monsters and especially _you_ , going crazy at the shooting range and punching vampires and whatnot. I'm certain he only saved these pictures because he thinks them kinda hot and uses them as special fantasies for the shower, but in that specific moment he hoped that they would at least startle me.”

She brushes Dean's wrist in a gentle touch, making the hunter snarl at her in response.

“And I have to admit, it actually worked,” she says, obviously not at all too proud to make that confession. “You can be one scary motherfucker, my friend. So when I heard someone entering the motel room and raising their voice I assumed it was you, and with these very detailed pictures in my mind I figured it would be better to run and regroup. I hate going into a confrontation unprepared.”

So that's why she stormed off when that eyewitness went into the room. Dean can't fight back a pleased grin in light of these new information.

But at the same time it raises more questions.

“So why _the hell_ did you come back then?” Dean wonders. “Why diving back into such a tense situation? I guess Cas showed you all the people standing behind him, so you _knew_ your attack would start a _huge_ ruckus.”

Finley nods, her expression changing into something Dean's unable to decipher. “You're right, _Cas_ showed me indeed the powerful forces having his back,” she agrees. “And _that's_ why I couldn't stay away.”

Dean furrows his brows. He's getting a very bad feeling. “What are you talking about?”

“Of course I've heard about hunters before,” she explains. “It's inevitable when you're in the supernatural business. But I had _no idea_ that there is so much more out there.”

Dean bites his bottom lip as realization hits him. “The Men of Letters,” he growls. “You had no clue they even exist.”

Finley pats his cheek like he's been a good boy. “I was _so fucking intrigued_ , you have no idea,” she says with emphasis. “I _needed_ to learn more. So I had to keep digging.”

Dean tightens his jaw and curses Castiel's urge to impress this woman so much that she decided to stay despite the risk. If Castiel would've showed her some super boring pictures of him sitting in his beloved library and translating some Sumerian text about ancient bug population, she would have run off the hills to never return.

“I actually intended to read your mind as well,” she tells him unperturbed. “But naturally it would have blown my cover, so I had to plan this very carefully. I waited for you to wear yourself out completely with all your worrying about your boyfriend. It'd have been as easy as pie then.” She sighs. “But I didn't expect you to call a demon and interfere with my plans. Nice job.”

She actually beams at him, as though someone ruining her carefully executed scheme is the best thing that ever happened to her.

“You're one weird chick,” Dean can't help announcing.

“I know,” she answers, apparently taking this as a compliment. “And I'm thinking about taking you with me and reading your mind in privacy. I'm sure you know a lot about those Men of Letters, too. That would be fun, right?”

Everything in Dean recoils at the mere suggestion. Once again he tries to fight back against the invisible chains, growling like a tiger locked inside a way too small cage. It hurts and it actually seems rather pointless, but Dean would rather die than go down without any kind of struggle.

“But then again … you might be useful in the future and I don't wanna anger you,” she says.

Dean snorts at the sheer audacity. “I'm _already_ angered! It can't be worse than that, sweetheart.”

Does she really think he'd be lenient with her if she'd let him go now? After everything she had done?

“You hurt Cas right in front of me!” he presses through gritted teeth. “I'll never forgive that.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don't be so melodramatic. He's just been in a coma for a few days, he probably even enjoyed the nap. And I only tried to read his mind again _once_ since the motel room and you and your demon friend interrupted me before anything interesting could have happened. So no harm done.”

Dean glares at her. _Seriously_? “That's not the way I see it.”

Finley shrugs, obviously not impressed. “Opinions might change, Dean. You'll see.” She runs his fingers through his hair, giving him goosebumps in the process. “Until next time then.”

She withdraws, a smug smile lying on her lips as she keeps watching him. “Say hello to Castiel for me.”

And then she fucking winks at him before turning around and walking away as though she would have all the time in the world. As though there are no hunters or demons desperate for her head on a silver platter nearby.

Either she's freaking nuts or incredibly brave.

But one way or another, Dean wants to see her _suffer_.

Badly.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


The chain enchantment wears off as soon as Finley puts enough distance between them.

One minute Dean is trapped against the wall, feeling like a fly inside a spider's web, unable to move, and the next it's like a string has been snapped and he finds himself falling onto the hallway's floor.

Instead of being flabbergasted by the whole situation he instantly kicks into action. He mobilizes the hunters close by and even the Sheriff and his people, giving them a detailed description of Finley, keen to use all the resources they've got. It might be in vain since Finley had been confident enough to let him live, probably knowing fairly well that nobody would be capable of tracking her down with a fifteen minutes headstart, but dammit, Dean will sure as hell try.

And they've got enough people to pull that off.

But instead of joining them on their search – no matter how badly he wants to get that bitch – he rushes back toward Castiel's room right away.

There are still things way more important.

He finds Christian standing at the window, watching the huge group of doctors gathered around Castiel's bed closely. Dean immediately hurries to his cousin's side.

“What's happening?” he asks anxiously. His heart flutters like crazy as he sees one of the doctors obviously preparing to remove the tube out of Castiel's throat, indicating that Castiel seems to get enough oxygen on his own again.

A very good sign.

“What happened _with you_?” Christian urges, ignoring Dean's question altogether. “You've been gone for ages and no one could find you –”

“I'm fine,” Dean cuts in, gritting his teeth. “She got away though.”

Christian shuts his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. “You were all kinds of reckless, Winchester. Mary's not happy about that.”

Dean flinches. “You called my mom?”

Christian rolls his eyes like this is the dumbest thing anyone ever asked him before. “ _Of course_ I did! She's coordinating this whole operation, remember? Why the hell shouldn't I have called her as soon as we identified the son of a bitch?”

Naturally it makes sense from a rational point of view. But from a son's perspective this won't be fucking a picnic.

Though it at least explains all those unanswered calls on his phone. Dean didn't give them much thought, especially since a lot of people had called him in the last few days, so he didn't bother to check who it's been so excessively attempting to reach him.

Yeah, that won't be pretty.

But before he's even able to paint a gruesome picture of his raging mother in his mind, one of the doctors suddenly approaches them, his face a mixture of so many emotions Dean's unable to distinguish them all. But he's quite certain he notices some hope in there and that's all that matters.

“How is he?” Dean asks immediately without further ado.

The doctor blinks (Dean vaguely recalls his name being Downhill), apparently thrown off his game for a second there, before he eventually takes a deep breath. “He will be fine,” he promises, sounding quite glad that he's able to give them a straight answer for a change. “Everything is going according to plan. Mr. Novak responds well to our treatment.”

Dean tries to glance at Castiel, but there are too many people standing in the way. “So he'll wake up soon?”

Downhill's expression turns soft, probably affected by the worry in Dean's voice. “It's a gradual process. We can't just give him an injection and he'll open his eyes straightaway. His system slowly needs to adjust to the new situation.” The doctor smiles easily. “But yes, he will wake up soon.”

And Dean feels how _days_ of stress finally dissipate.

Everything will be alright now.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


The next few hours are a blur.

As soon as the doctors and the rest of the medical stuff leave Dean finds himself once again in the by now familiar chair next to Castiel. But now there isn't a dark cloud hanging above his head anymore and Dean feels lighter already.

It won't be long now.

At one point he calls his mother back because he can't postpone it without being submitted to her wrath, but he's way too sleep-deprived to actually concentrate on anything she has to say. He hears something like “reckless” and “consequences”, but he's barely able to recall the conversation after hanging up.

And then he waits.

He tries to stay focused, calling Christian and Gwen once in a while to get updates on the manhunt (which turned out to be far from successful so far) and to remind Christian to set the goddamned _King of the Crossroads_ free before some unsuspecting janitor would find him in that storeroom, but somewhere down the line his mind drifts off and he starts to doze.

So he's got no real idea how much time has passed when all of a sudden a voice startles him out of his thoughts and daydreams.

“You look awful.”

Dean grumbles underneath his breath, more than ready to give Christian a piece of his mind for interrupting the silence, when he abruptly realizes that the voice had been _way too deep_ to belong to his cousin.

Dean stirs wide awake immediately as he turns toward the bed next to him and is greeted with an intense gaze in return.

An intense, very blue-eyed gaze.

Dean scrambles to his feet quite gracelessly, knocking his chair over in the process, and instantly rushes to the bed's side.

“Cas,” he whispers.

He's not sure that he ever felt so much relief before in his life. It seems like every single muscle in his body begins to relax at once, turning his legs useless and making him grab the bed before toppling over. He didn't even notice how tense he had been the last few days.

But now, with those two eyes he longed to see so desperately looking right back at him, the world suddenly appears a so much sunnier place.

“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty.” Before Dean even registers what he's doing, he finds his fingers thread through Castiel's messy hair, brushing some single strands out of his forehead. “It's been about time you woke up from your nap.”

Castiel furrows his brows, evidently confused by the whole situation. “What … happened?”

His voice sounds beyond croaky and Dean immediately takes the water bottle from the tray nearby and, after popping a straw in, offers it to the clearly parched patient. Castiel just stares at him for a moment, probably bewildered by Dean's unusual helpfulness, before eventually deciding that getting his hands on some water is more important right now and trying to sit up.

Dean, however, instantly places his hand on Castiel's chest and gently pushes him back into the pillows. “No, no, don't strain yourself. You have to stay in bed until the doctors tell you otherwise.”

Castiel seems like he wants to argue – the disgruntled frown on his face a sight for sore eyes in Dean's opinion –, but he postpones his protest for now and sucks on the straw, looking unhappy and puzzled and overall downright perfect.

Dean never wanted to kiss a person so badly before.

“So … what happened?” Castiel demands to know after allaying his thirst.

Dean, though, revels in just watching him for a moment. He's very aware that his hand dropped to the guy's shoulder and he's in general way closer than he normally allows himself to be, their respective body heats intermingling and creating something warm and safe, but he just can't help himself. After a freaking eternity of hoping to see the life back in Castiel's _everything_ it's awesome to realize his wish came true for a change.

“Dean!” Castiel presses, sounding impatient now. “Tell me what happened. Where is that woman?”

Dean perks up instantly and forces himself to go back to business, at least for the moment. He can't afford to gaze at Castiel like an idiot for hours.

As much as this sounds like a great pastime.

“How much do you remember?” Dean asks.

Castiel wrinkles his forehead in concentration. “This woman … she knocked on the door,” he explains. “And then … she grabbed my head before I could even react. Tried to … tried to …”

He starts to cough and Dean pushes the water bottle in his face straightaway once again, forcing him to drink a few more drops.

“Maybe we should do this another time,” Dean suggests, probably more surprised by the softness in his tone than Castiel . “You need to rest. I'll call the doctors and –”

“How long?” Castiel cuts in, his expression hard.

Dean blinks. “What?”

“How long have I've been … out?” Castiel asks. “By the way you're acting I presume it wasn't just for a few minutes, right?”

Dean chews his bottom lip, debating for a moment to spare him this information for now so he wouldn't get upset and disrupt the healing process. But Castiel's features harden, making it perfectly clear that he knows exactly what's going on inside the hunter's head and that he doesn't like it one bit.

“Just tell me, Dean,” he urges. “I won't fall into despair. I mean, it hasn't been _years_ , right?” But as soon as the words left his mouth, his eyes widen in shock. “Oh my God, _has_ it been years?”

Dean doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or cry and settles for a snort instead. “No, Novak, it's barely been a week. Don't get your panties in a twist.”

Though the 'barely' sounds all kinds of wrong in that sentence. The whole thing felt like a fucking lifetime.

Meanwhile, Castiel takes a relieved breath. “Well, okay, that doesn't sound so bad. Although I missed the second part of _'Back to the Future'_. Considering the first movie's cliffhanger, that's sort of irritating.”

Dean just gapes for a minute. Is he seriously just talking about Marty McFly after waking up from a coma?

_God_ , Dean's desire to kiss the guy gets even _worse_.

“Damn, I missed you,” he blurts out before he's able to stop himself and he instantly blushes from top to bottom, wondering where the hell his brain-to-mouth filter went. Probably on vacation, by the sound of it.

Castiel, understandably, appears quite astounded by Dean's openness and just stares at the man next to him with slightly widened eyes, obviously unsure how to react. “Um …”

Dean starts to fidget awkwardly. “I mean, I didn't think … I didn't –”

He gets more and more uncomfortable by the second, merely muttering nonsense and looking anywhere but Castiel, making a huge fool of himself. And it especially gets worse when eventually the corners of Castiel's mouth twitch upwards, the fucking bastard seemingly highly entertained by Dean's agony.

“Okay, whatever!” Dean snaps in the end. “ _Yes_ , I missed your stupid face! Happy now? But considering that most of the time I had to deal with obnoxious assholes like Christian or Crowley, that's not saying much. I probably would've even missed a fungus if it'd spared me from breathing the same air as those asshats.”

However, instead of offering a sarcastic retort or maybe even beginning to laugh, Castiel suddenly looks alarmed. “Crowley?”

Ah damn.

Dean winces. “It's a long story.”

Castiel's gaze turns gloomy. “ _Dean_ ,” he says threateningly. “What happened while I was asleep?”

The hunter sighs deeply. “Okay, I swear I'll tell you everything,” he pledges. “But for now – dude, you just woke up from a freaking coma! So I'm gonna call the doctors and let them check you out _thoroughly_ because that's what needs to happen now!”

Castiel doesn't appear thrilled, but at the same time he apparently sees the logic behind Dean's reasoning. “Fine,” he agrees. “But after that I want to hear the _whole_ story. No matter how long.”

Dean pulls a face. He didn't expect anything else, but he's honestly not sure if he'd be capable of telling the tale without showing some serious emotions.

“And you _really_ look awful, Winchester!” Castiel points out once more. “Did you even sleep last week?”

His reproachful and yet concerned tone lets Dean's heart skip a beat or two.

So instead of giving an answer and either admit that yes, he barely slept at all, or lie through his teeth and find a lame excuse for his current state, Dean grabs Castiel's now oh so warm hand, links their fingers and revels in the feeling of _life_ underneath the skin.

And Castiel simply stares at him, his gaze as piercing and intense as the hunter remembers it to be, before he eventually tightens Dean's grip as if he's got no intention to let go anytime soon.

And Dean finds himself smiling – easy and carefree – for the first time in what feels like forever.

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, took the guy long enough to wake up ;D Poor Dean!
> 
> And to make it up to you (and Dean) the next chapters will be filled with so much Destiel, you'll probably get tired of it eventually ;p  
> Or maybe not ;)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter right on time for Dean's birthday ;)
> 
> And once again it's extra long because I couldn't help myself!!
> 
> -

Castiel is soon declared as healthy as a guy in his situation can be.

Of course being in a coma for about a week takes its toll on the body and he's not instantly allowed to jump out of bed and leave the hospital without further ado, but the doctors sound optimistic enough that it won't take long and Dean draws in a relieved breath when he hears that.

Not only is he keen to say goodbye to this godforsaken place and never see it again, but also the whole thing with the medical-induced coma is rising more and more questions which start to get really fucking uncomfortable. It's natural that the hospital and police want to know how the hell something like that was able to happen, Dean can't exactly blame them for their persistence, but sooner or later it will begin to threaten their FBI cover story. Granted, the Men of Letter's network is big and their ability to forge resumes and intercept phone calls is frigging legendary, but the longer they stay in one place the higher the chances of exposure.

So yeah, sooner rather than later they should get their moves on.

However, the downside of Castiel's recovery is unfortunately the guy's newfound strength to yell at Dean any chance he gets.

_Especially_ after Dean tells him the whole story.

“You made _a deal_ with _Crowley_?” Castiel hisses as soon as Dean has finished, his eyes stormy. “Are you out of your mind?”

Dean sighs. “It's not like I sold him my soul or something.”

“ _I. Don't. Care_!” Castiel growls, gripping his blanket as if he wants to rip that stupid thing apart. “You're not supposed to make deals with demons. That's basically the first thing you learn during your training.”

“Actually the first thing you learn is not shooting yourself in the foot,” Dean counters, smirking. “It's a serious issue.”

Castiel's expression turns even more grim, obviously not happy with Dean's attempts at joking. “You should lose your attitude,” he snarls. “There is _nothing_ funny about that. Demons are malicious creatures that use every loophole they find. It's just _so stupid_ to –” He halts and takes a deep breath to gather his thoughts. “Okay, tell me exactly what you agreed on. Word by word.”

Dean hesitates for a moment, keen to tell him to mind his own fucking business and leave him in peace, but in the end he complies and tries to remember the exact wording in his tired brain.

“You see?” he says after he's finished. “It's not so bad.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “It would even be bad if you simply promised him a batch of cookies in exchange for a pie. Demons can twist _anything_.”

Dean bites his bottom lip, feeling some anger rising inside himself. “So what was I supposed to do, huh? You were in a fucking coma, dude, and no one knew what was going on.” He scoffs. “I made my choice. You don't have to be happy about it or anything, but without that godforsaken demon you wouldn't be able to talk to me right now. You should fucking _thank_ me instead of getting all condescending.”

Castiel's expression changes immediately. “It's not that I'm not grateful what you risked for me –”

“Yeah, I'm feeling the love.”

“I _am_!” Castiel states with emphasis. “What you did … no one ever …” He halts, his intense gaze resting on Dean. “But it was _incredibly_ reckless. You could have ended up dead. I'm not worth that.”

Dean wants to argue that he's worth _everything_ , that he doesn't regret taking this shot for even a single second and that he'd do it again in a heartbeat without a second thought, but that would've sounded corny and cheesy and way too touchy-feely and Dean seriously can't have that right now. Not with Castiel looking right back at him with those big, blue eyes. Dean wouldn't get out of it with his dignity intact.

So he mumbles a quick, “Yeah, well, call it temporary insanity,” and leaves it with that.

Thankfully Castiel drops the subject after that, though Dean's certain he's far from being out of the woods.

Castiel's discharged the next day though, so the huge amount of preparations is taking all of his attention for the time being, making it downright hard to continue their conversation about demon deals with a chatty nurse in the room helping them pack Castiel's things and several swarms of doctors watching by, probably most of them only curious to get a quick look of the guy who has been in a criminally-induced coma before he'd disappear for good.

Dean's more than happy when they leave the goddamned hospital eventually. He didn't even notice how cooped up he'd been the last week until he steps outside and gets a breeze of fresh air blown right into his face. Usually he'd have gotten cabin fever really freaking fast, only his constant worrying about Castiel's condition kept him from actually acknowledging his own situation.

Now he finds himself breathing deeply and smiling at the sun.

And when he spots the Impala at the parking lot, his grin only widens. It doesn't even matter that it's been frigging Christian who drove her over from the motel, Dean's just happy to see her in all her beauty.

He hastily stashes Castiel's stuff in the back and pushes the guy into the passenger's seat as soon as the door is open. Dean seriously doesn't want to waste any more time.

“If we go now, we'll be in Lebanon tonight,” Dean explains. “And I can't wait to leave this place behind.”

When he slips onto the driver's seat Castiel throws him a confused look. “You're not staying here?”

Dean snorts. “Why the hell would I?”

Castiel tilts his head. “I just figured you would be keen on catching Finley. You don't have to trouble yourself only because we arrived here together, I'm sure one of the other hunters would get me back to Lebanon.”

Dean shakes his head. “Okay, granted, I wanna roast that bitch _slowly_ , but not leaving you out of my sight is much more important right now and you're _not_ staying here!” He shrugs nonchalantly. “So that means we're going.”

Castiel stays still for a moment, just studying Dean intently as though he's able to read all the true answers in Dean's features (and damn, the hunter wouldn't even be surprised if Castiel _seriously_ would be capable of that) and answers eventually, “Fine, if you insist.”

Dean decides to ignore Castiel's weird undertone as he explains, “I'm calling Sammy and tell him we're gonna be back at the bunker tonight. There should hopefully be some some good home-cooked meal waiting for us then. Maybe some stew or a simple soup. As long as Balthazar is cooking, because the guy is a fucking genius in the kitchen, I'm alright with about almost anything –”

“We're not going to the bunker,” Castiel cuts in. “Not tonight, at least.”

Dean halts. “What?”

“I'm staying at my house tonight,” Castiel explains patiently. “And you're probably as well since you seem so adamant, am I right?”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about? We're going back to the _bunker_ , the safest place in the whole country, in the whole frigging universe probably –”

“My house is efficiently warded too,” Castiel interrupts him once again, obviously not impressed by Dean's words. “No supernatural being is able to enter it. And I've got a very reliable alarm system installed as well, so no unwanted human visitors either.”

Dean scoffs. “I don't care. We're going to the bunker –”

“It's not your decision!” Castiel says, a sharpness in his voice now. “And it's not mine either.”

Dean crinkles his forehead. “What do you mean?”

“It's a simple safety precaution,” Castiel says. “Someone was inside my head and the Men of Letters have to make sure that there are no lasting effects before they let me back into the heart of our organization again. For all they know Finley could have turned me into a sleeper cell that would start to kill everyone around me as soon as I'd hear the word 'milkshake'.”

Dean blinks a few times. “You … you think …?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “No, nothing of that sort happened. But they have to examine me first and give me a clean bill of health before letting me back into the bunker. And I'm sure that won't happen when we arrive in Lebanon that late.”

Dean pulls a face, but he has to admit that rule makes some sense. A lot of ugly stuff might happen if someone is playing with your brain, so it seriously isn't the worst idea to stay cautious.

And after all, his little brother is living in that bunker too. Dean should be happy they're taking security that seriously.

But still, he doesn't like the thought of Castiel having to stay outside the bunker for yet another day.

“It's alright,” Castiel assures him. “The last fresh trail of Finley's leads out of town in a totally different direction and we additionally make sure that nobody will follow us. And Christian searched every single bag and car from top to bottom to be certain there are no tracking devices hidden somewhere.”

Dean nods along, but stops when the other man's words finally reach his brain. “Wait, he searched the _Impala_?!”

Castiel merely shrugs. “I'm certain he put everything back where he found it.”

Dean grinds his teeth and for a moment he's on the verge of leaping out of the car, looking for Christian and giving him a piece of his mind, but in the end he settles on a few deep inhales and decides that it doesn't really matter. Christian knows better than to mess with Dean's Baby anyway.

And Dean doesn't wanna stay one single second in this hellhole.

“Let's just go.”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Castiel sleeps or dozes most of the ride.

Dean constantly jokes about it, telling him how impressive it is to nap all the time though he's been sleeping for a whole week before, but actually he's kinda glad Castiel is taking the doctors' advice to rest to heart. He actually half expected Castiel to jump back into work straightaway, wearing himself out finding a solution for Finley, the missing souls and the dead witches, and Dean already braced himself to beat some sense into him eventually, preparing some long speeches filled with logic and common sense in his mind to be ready for battle, but instead Castiel just agreed to anything the doctors said to him and didn't even complain once.

It's such a nice change of the usual agenda that Dean can't help pointing it out during one of Castiel's waking phases.

“The doctors are right after all,” Castiel explains. “I'm way too exhausted to hold one rational thought for longer. Besides, it wouldn't be fair to you.”

Dean frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Christian told me you barely slept or left my side the whole time,” Castiel continues, his voice a bit unsteady. “After such a display of devotion, how could I work myself into the ground?”

Dean blushes at the phrasing. “'Devotion' is really a harsh word –”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Don't think I'm a fool only because I'm tired and might miss some things. You were worried and you still are and it would be highly ungrateful of me to ignore that by exhausting myself, don't you think?”

Dean chews his bottom lip as he thinks of a way to defuse the situation. They're getting into serious territory here, so it seems, and Dean had successfully avoided any kind of deep conversation – about emotions and stuff – the last few days and he seriously doesn't wanna see that changed in such a cramped space with no way of escaping.

So he grunts, “Don't flatter yourself and go back to sleep,”, hoping it'd be enough to keep Castiel's mouth shut for now.

Castiel simply smirks at him, obviously not fooled by Dean's lame attempt at diversion.

And it stays like that for the rest of the ride.

Great.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Dean completely forgot that Castiel's house is next to a lake.

It's not a big one – Dean totally forgot the name of the damned thing although he looked at a map of Lebanon more than once –, but it seems peaceful and quiet and Dean totally understands why Castiel prefers to spend his free time in such an environment. If it wasn't too freaking cold and also way too late and dark to jump into the water, he'd be ripping his clothes off by now.

No, for now he has to settle on looking over the still water and wonder how magical it might look when the sunlight falls upon it. He actually can't wait to find out the next day.

“Cas!” suddenly a voice exclaims and something huge and massive attacks Castiel all of a sudden. Dean immediately turns into hunter mode, his hand snapping to his gun at his belt on reflex, ready to shoot and fight without a second thought, but just a moment later he realizes that the alleged assault is actually an embrace and that big something his own baby brother.

“Damn, it's good to see you again,” Sam says, pressing Castiel even closer. “We were worried sick.”

Castiel looks a bit uncomfortable and at some point he starts to gasp for air, so that Dean hastily decides to jump in before some serious damage might occur.

“Yeah, yeah, leave it, Sammy,” he grumbles and nudges his brother's shoulder. “You're crushing the poor guy.”

Sam looks up. “Dean,” he says before wrapping his giant arms around Dean as well. “You're okay.”

Dean pats his back. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“Christian told us you've been a big idiot,” Sam explains. “Not sleeping, not eating, trying to catch the big villain all on your own. Mom and Dad will have a word with you after that too.”

Dean groans and curses Christian's stupid gossipy mouth.

“What are you even doing here?” Dean grunts as Sam finally lets go and graciously allows his brother to breath again.

“Like I said, we were freaking worried,” Sam repeats, looking at Castiel with a warm smile on his lips. “Balthazar and Anna wanted to be here, too, but … well, you know the rules.”

Castiel nods. “At least two Men of Letters have to stay at the headquarter at all time,” he says. “I'll make sure to call them tonight.”

“And I have some food with me as well,” Sam announces happily, pointing at the house behind him. “Something home-made since Dean was repeatedly whining in his texts about the lack of decent meals.”

Dean pulls a face. “If it something home-made _by you_ , I'll give it a pass.”

Sam shoot him bitchface #6: _“Stop being a dick.”_ “Only because I eat healthy more often than not –”

“It's not about your stupid rabbit food,” Dean interjects. “It's just the fact that you're a lousy cook. In general.”

Sam glares at him, but before he's able to offer a snarky retort Castiel grips his shoulder and squeezes it slightly, his expression sympathetic. For a moment Dean thinks Castiel would offer his condolences to Sam for having such an asshat of a brother (it sure wouldn't be the first time), but instead he says gravelly, “Dean is right, Sam. You suck.”

Dean blinks in surprise a few time before laughing so loud that it sounds across the river and probably startles some wildlife in the process.

In the meantime Sam snorts, looking all kinds of affronted. “Don't worry, you jerks, it's Balthazar's meatloaf, so your sensible taste buds are safe.”

Dean grins widely. Balthazar might be an arrogant asshole, but _damn_ , his fucking meatloaf is legendary. Dean doesn't waste any time to grab their duffle bags out of the Impala's trunk and rush toward the house as fast as possible.

Dean walks right inside as the door is already open (obviously Castiel kept some spare keys in the bunker as Sam is quick to mention, probably to prevent any lock-picking jokes) and dumps the bags at the staircase before taking a look around and whistling approvingly.

It's a really nice and cozy little cottage. The living room is surprisingly large and inviting, especially the big fireplace on the south wall. Dean's lips twitch as he envisions Castiel sitting on the comfy couch with a book in his hands and enjoying the warmth of the fire. It's definitely an upgrade to the woody chairs and lumpy armchairs in the bunker, that's for sure.

The kitchen turns out to be somewhat smaller, a bit hidden in a niche, but since Castiel isn't prone for cooking large meals himself he most likely didn't set high value on a big kitchen. It's nice though and Dean already finds himself checking the parameters as he's determined to use it the next morning to make some goddamned pancakes or waffles or whatever else that isn't hospital food.

Castiel only owns a small dining table which is set in the kitchen's corner by a high window, but it's enough for now. If you don't mind Castiel's leg brushing yours any other second.

Which Dean doesn't.

Not really.

Sam is quick to reheat the food and soon they're digging in. As expected it's absolutely delicious and Dean moans rather obscenely, making Sam glower and Castiel blush adorably. At some point Dean actually announces to have Balthazar's children if the guy would cook like that for him everyday and he isn't even put out when Sam tapes the whole thing and threatens to show it to Balthazar later.

Dean is always true to his word and he has nothing to be ashamed of.

To no one's surprise Sam and Castiel soon start to talk nerdy. At first it's regular stuff – some ancient scroll that had been found by some hunters by accidents a few days ago is the main topic for about fifteen minutes nonstop –, but eventually they're discussing the case, the dead witches, the missing souls and, of course, Finley.

There seems to be no new leads so far, only dead ends and more questions than answers, and Dean finds himself gritting his teeth at the reminder of his failure.

“We've got all forces on board,” Sam tells them proudly. “Even the headquarters in Canada and Alaska which tend to keep to themselves most of the time. But I guess when even hell itself is involved and you drop a name like Crowley, everyone is startled awake suddenly.”

Dean grimaces while Castiel merely nods as if this whole mess happened to someone else. “It indeed deserves our attention.”

“But most of all we're just happy you're okay,” Sam says, his voice soft. “And that it wasn't something serious in the end. Artificial coma – who would've thought that?”

Clearly no one took it even into consideration. To be fair though, it's seriously not the first think that pops into your head when you're dealing with something supernatural on a daily basis. Everyone had a hard time believing it at first.

“How did you even work it out?” Sam asks, his gaze trained on Dean now.

The hunter falters. Christian's big mouth apparently didn't spill all the beans yet. “Uh …”

He glances at Castiel whose expression had turned rather pensive as he studies Sam. Dean fully expects the guy to blurt it out without any kind of mercy, bluntly announcing, _“Your stupid brother made a deal with a demon,_ that's _how he worked it out!”_ without further ado, and Dean begins to mentally prepare himself for a heavy backlash.

But instead Castiel just clears his throat and says, “That's actually a bit of a long story and I'm quite exhausted, to be honest. Would you terribly mind if we'd postpone our talk?”

Sam's eyes widen. “Oh damn, of course. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to keep you that long.” He leaps to his feet like an eager puppy. “Can I help you with something?”

Castiel smiles. “Thank you, Sam, but it's alright. I only need Dean to carry my bag upstairs to my room, that's about it.”

His legs start to tremble a bit when he heaves himself out of his chair and Sam instantly grabs his arm to steady him. Castiel shoots him a grateful look.

“Of course you're welcome to stay for the night,” Castiel offers after he got himself into a upright position again. “I always enjoy your company and I can't imagine Dean minding it much as well.”

Sam laughs. “I didn't wanna leave you alone with him anyway. I figured you could use a little break from all that excessive fussing and mother hening.”

Dean scowls at him. “ _Hey_!”

Sam simply ignores his brother and grins knowingly at Castiel. “Night, Cas.”

“Good night, Sam.”

Dean sends his idiot of a brother a last dark glare before, somewhat reluctantly, following Castiel to his bedroom. The room itself is rather small, yet as comfortable and homey as the rest of the house. Dean probably wouldn't have had any trouble finding some peace and quiet in a place like this.

However, _right now_ Castiel's stormy expression doesn't bode very well.

Dean sighs deeply. “I guess you wanna yell at me some more, right?”

He should've seen that coming.

“So I assume Sam doesn't know about the demon deal?” Castiel folds his arms across his chest and arches an eyebrow.

Dean shrugs casually. “Well, I guess not. _I_ sure as hell didn't tell him.”

“Does anyone beside me know?” Castiel groans, obviously not pleased with that kind of burden.

Dean snorts. “Don't worry, you're not keeping a dirty secret or anything. Christian knows and _of course_ that wanker told my mom. So you're not the only one.”

The phone conversation with Mary had been highly unpleasant and although Dean rather properly reasoned his case, he still left feeling like a stupid child somehow. His parents are far from happy with their son' decision and Dean's quite sure that they would've grounded him for life and beyond if they'd still have the power to do so.

“It's not that big of a deal like anyone thinks it to be,” Dean retorts impatiently. “He didn't ask for my soul or my firstborn and I most certainly won't end up a as sex slave or some kind of pet human. So stop making such a big fuss!”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “ _Fuss_? Seriously?”

Dean merely shrugs. “It's just a little arrangement between a hunter and a businessman. He won't rip my head off or anything.”

Castiel heaves a deep breath, apparently attempting to control any sudden outburst of emotions. “He's a _demon_ , Dean, and there were probably a million different ways how you could have handled the situation –”

“But there _wasn't_!” Dean cuts in sharply. “You were asleep, you fucking bastard, so you have _no idea_. You didn't wake up and no one could tell me why and what the hell was I supposed to do then? Just sit by and hope for the best? Watch you maybe _die_?”

“Dean –”

“It was my fault!” Dean hisses. “You were in that coma _because of me_! I should have sent you home when I still got the chance. I should have not trusted Finley. There are so many things I should and shouldn't have done!”

His blood is almost boiling now, making him a little dizzy. He didn't even realize how much anger and frustration he shoved down since everything went to shit. It feels like his insides are on the verge of ripping apart if he wouldn't let all this mess get out somehow.

“Calling Crowley and asking for his help was the only right thing I did and I won't apologize for that!” Dean states firmly. “Without him you'd still be in that coma and Finley –”

He clenches his jaw tightly only thinking about that lying piece of shit.

“None of this is your fault,” Castiel counters, a surprising amount of emotions in his voice. “ _None_. The only one to blame here is Finley!”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, well –”

“No!” Castiel interjects immediately, apparently knowing fairly well that Dean won't just accept that and move on. “You have a remarkable tendency to put the weight of the world on your shoulders sometimes, but this is not on you! You did nothing wrong here. On the contrary.” He inhales deeply, obviously preparing himself to give a long speech. “And if you're _seriously_ insist on playing this game, then you have to blame _all of us_ as well. The hunters, the Men of Letters – we were all searching for a powerful supernatural being and completely missed Finley in the process. Every single one of us misjudged the situation. But is Christian guilty of what happened to me? Sam? Your mother? Or even I?”

Dean scowls. In his head he knows that Castiel has quite a valid point here, but once again his heart is telling him a different story.

“Dean …” Castiel is suddenly much closer than before, entering Dean's very personal space quite shamelessly, but the hunter can't bring himself to step back. “I seriously appreciate what you have done for me, but dealing with a demon because of misplaced guilt is downright –”

The hunter snaps to attention right away.

“You think I did all of this this only because I felt guilty?” Dean interrupts harshly, glaring at the man in front of him. “That if the circumstances of your coma would've been different, I wouldn't have bothered? That's _seriously_ what you think?”

Uncertainty flickers over Castiel's features. “I …”

Dean grits his teeth. “I can't believe you sometimes.”

“Dean –”

“You know what? _Screw you_!” he growls. “I was worried sick, man, and I was _fucking desperate_! _Y_ ou weren't waking up and your Men of Letters buddies couldn't give me a straight answer. They were arguing and researching and telling me to wait like a good boy. And all those doctors and nurses looked at me with pity like they believed I'd break down every second and … and …” He trails off, rubbing his head forcefully. “I thought I was losing my friend and _that's_ why I called Crowley. I couldn't bear seeing you lying there without doing _everything_ in my powers to help you!” He huffs. “So I won't apologize for it. I'm glad I did it and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.”

Who knows what would have happened without Crowley? How long would've taken the doctors to realize that something wasn't right? That someone had tampered with their data?

How much more damage could've done by Finley in the meantime?

Yeah, Dean doesn't regret his decision one bit.

Even if it'd bite him in the ass eventually.

“Dean …” Castiel's voice is merely a whisper now, his captivating eyes glinting in a way Dean's unable to interpret.

And then he suddenly moves.

For one split second Dean thinks Castiel is about to attack him somehow, maybe slap his head upside down and tell him what a colossal idiot he's been for trusting a demon, but before Dean's even able to decide how he'd react to such an attack, he all of a sudden feels a pair of strong arms wrap around his neck and pull him into a tight embrace.

Dean's body sags into Castiel's without his own accord and before he knows it he's enclosed by such a comfortable warmth that each and every single tense muscle relaxes and actually _sighs_ in relief. He seriously had no idea something like this is even possible, but here they are.

Hugging.

_Damn_.

Admittedly, it's not the first time they've been close to each other. Castiel generally lacks any perception for personal space whatsoever, so he's always been in Dean's proximity somehow, no matter the circumstances. And then of course the last few days since Castiel woke up from his coma. Dean tried, he really did, however, he constantly found himself touching the guy. Mostly subtle, like brushing his skin or fixing some allegedly rumpled clothes, but it's been rather persistent and there's no way in hell Castiel didn't notice the unusual frequency at some point.

He didn't say anything, though. Didn't tell Dean to stop and keep his distance.

No, instead he obviously decided somewhere along the way to rise the thing to a whole new level.

For an embarrassingly long moment Dean's got no idea what to do. The most logical solution would be, of course, to hug back or at least make an half-hearted attempt and crack a stupid joke, but Dean finds himself unable to move his arms or even open his mouth. He's frozen, fucking shell shocked by the sensation of Castiel's body pressed against his. _From top to bottom,_ no less, because the nerd has apparently no clue about the fine line between a buddy hug and an intimate embrace.

Or … maybe he does?

It's all in all way too much for Dean's system.

“I'm sorry,” Castiel whispers into his ear, his warm breath skidding over Dean's skin and making him shudder. “I didn't mean to appear ungrateful. I really appreciate what you did. It's just …” He pulls the hunter even closer, stealing Dean's breath away. “I was concerned. I don't like it when my friends risk their lives like that. But I didn't mean to lash out on you, that wasn't fair.”

Dean's chest constricts hearing those words. _Dammit_.

He can't exactly remember when they started to become friends who actually _acknowledge_ this to each other, but he's gotta confess he kinda likes the sound of it.

Perhaps it's not the worst that could have happened.

And before he even knows it, his arms wrap around the body so close to his and he shuts his eyes for a second. It's feels nice and warm and though he's aware that the embrace already lasts longer than socially acceptable, he kinda doesn't want it to end too soon yet.

Yeah, it's _most definitely_ not the worst.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean deserves all the birthday hugs ❤︎


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys, where the hell did the time go???
> 
> I just realized it's been over one and a half months since the last update and I was like O___________o Why did no one tell me that time is flying by like that???
> 
> Damn, maybe I should get myself a calendar ;DD
> 
> While I'm out shopping I hope you'll have fun with the new chapter!!
> 
> \--

Dean feels like in a daze when he eventually walks down the stairs again.

He stills senses the warmth of Castiel’s body, still smells him, and his whole system is reacting in a way he doesn’t know how to deal with. He could have handled some parts of his body getting a bit interested after that unexpected closeness between them because, let’s face it, Castiel is one sexy sonuvabitch, and it’s only natural to become a little bothered by that.

He also anticipated some heat caused by embarrassment since they obviously made some kind of progress in their relationship by acknowledging each other as friends and Dean’s never been good with all that crap to begin with. He’s a freaking doer, not a teller.

However, he didn’t expect his heart beating a mile a second, even _now_ , five minutes later, as if it never will stop again. His chest is constricted, his mind is somersaulting like crazy and he seriously can’t remember ever feeling like that before. It’s somewhat frightening and Dean honestly has no idea what to do with that.

“You okay?” Sam's voice suddenly jolts him out of his thoughts. “You look a little spooked.”

Well, Dean sure as well can't argue with that assessment. But instead of going into a deep analysis about his feelings and doubts, he merely grunts and waves his brother off. “Just tired.”

Sam doesn't look convinced, but refrains from nagging as he dries the last of the dishes and puts them away. He seems comfortable in the kitchen, obviously knowing where everything goes without checking twice, and Dean finds himself wondering how often Sam came over to Castiel's place in the past.

He feels a twinge of jealousy thinking about that.

“You seem to know your way around here,” he says, his voice thankfully steady enough to not rise too much suspicion. “You've been here often?”

Sam glances over his shoulder. “Yeah, several times,” he answers. “It gets kinda depressing being in an underground bunker most of the time, y'know? Cas told me and the others to come over whenever we want.”

Dean bites his lip, picturing Sam and Castiel lounging on the couch, reading their books and geeking about their nerdy stuff with a warm fireplace in the background. His chest tightens awkwardly although his brain knows fairly well that there is no rational reason to react that way.

“It's nice,” Sam continues when Dean doesn't immediately respond. “The lake, the quiet. Got me thinking of getting a place of my own myself rather sooner than later too. Balthazar bought some fancy apartment two towns over some time ago as well.”

Dean nods along. “You're in your thirties, dude. I guess you're allowed to live on your own for a change.”

Granted, it doesn't sit perfectly well with him to imagine his brother outside of the super safe bunker for even a weekend, but it's not like he has any authority here. And it would've been quite hypocritical to bitch about that while he runs off hunting monsters and risking his life on an almost daily basis. Sam deserves some normal once in a while.

“You too, by the way,” Sam says, his tone getting that serious vibe Dean always tries to run away from. “You're allowed something like that as well. Making a home. Settling down.”

Sam's eyes flicker to the ceiling for a moment, right there were Castiel's bedroom is, and Dean can't help biting his lips. He's not really sure if his little brother's actually suspecting something (whatever the hell that might be) or if he's simply lost in his thoughts, letting his gaze wander in a random direction.

“I was worried, y'know?” Sam suddenly says after a moment of tense silence. He's facing his brother now, his expression turning into something way too intense for Dean to decipher. “ _Really_ worried.”

Dean narrows his eyes, a bit wary where Sam is going with that. “I'm sure Cas appreciates your concern.”

“I wasn't worried about Cas,” Sam counters, but his eyes grow big immediately as he realizes how that might sound. “I mean, _of course_ I was worried about him! You have no idea how much. I drove myself crazy with finding a way to help him somehow and it got so fucking frustrating when there was _nothing_ –” He inhales deeply. “So yeah, I'm really glad he's okay now.”

Dean feels a big _But_ coming his way and he starts to squirm uncomfortably. He hates when his brother gets super emotional all of a sudden.

Sam steps closer. “But,” – _ah, there it is_ – “I was seriously worried about you too.”

Dean pulls a face. Does he _really_ have to deal with this now? “Sam –”

“You were barely answering my text messages, so I had to talk mostly with douche Christian of all things –” He huffs, clearly not happy about that. “And what he told me –”

“He was exaggerating,” Dean interjects right away. “I mean, c'mon, that dude is a total drama queen. I mean, yeah, I was worried after what happened to Cas, but I didn't run myself into the ground or anything. I'm still here, kicking.”

_Barely_ , he doesn't add.

Sam, however, hears it anyway. “I know you!” he states. “You're turning into a mother hen when someone you care about is hurt or sick. And don't even dare to deny that you care about Cas!” he chides as Dean just opens his mouth to contradict. “You two have this weird thing going on and I know he matters to you. You wouldn't leave him in a ditch to die like you so often claimed you would.”

Dean chews his lip. “Of course not,” he mutters. “But c'mon, who'd seriously do that?”

Sam chooses to ignore his statement. “You two – I don't know what you are to each other, but I'm quite sure you wouldn't have freaked out the same way if Christian would've been the one who got attacked.”

Dean can't exactly argue with that, so he keeps quiet.

“The thing is, Cas got hurt and you probably blamed yourself for some stupid reason because that's the way you are, and I was really worried that you'd wear yourself out or do something _really stupid_ to solve this whole thing …”

Dean actually considers for a second to tell him about his deal with Crowley right here and now, just to see his flabbergasted expression.

It would most certainly be a sight to behold.

However, right now Dean doesn't have the strength to face any kind of deep conversation and talk about his dumb decisions in very thorough detail.

“I'm tired,” he mumbles, throwing in a loud yawn for good measure. “How about we talk about our precious feelings another time?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I'm just saying –”

“And I'm exhausted,” Dean cuts in, raising his hand in a _shut-the-fuck-up_ manner. “I've been driving the better part of the day and, like you just said, I haven't slept in ages. I'd like to catch up on that, okay?”

Sam bites his bottom lip, probably about to argue that Dean is always avoiding meaningful topics by making up flimsy excuses (and he wouldn't have been entirely wrong about that), but eventually he seems to recall that Dean _indeed_ hadn't much sleep for a long while now and that it's not just a lame-ass way to dodge a bullet here.

“Okay, sorry, you're right,” Sam agrees. “It's not fair of me to pester you like that when you're running on four hours of sleep since last Thursday.”

Dean nods. “Damn right.”

“And you can take the guest room upstairs,” Sam offers. “The bed is really comfortable. Granted, not like your beloved memory foam, but close enough.”

Actually, that sounds kinda heavenly.

“I'll use Cas' study,” Sam continues, pointing at a closed door next to the kitchen. “He's got a fold-out couch in there. It's kinda antique and probably will try to eat me at some point, but I'll manage. I guess.”

Dean smirks. “If not, it's gonna be remembered as the most honorable death.”

Sam rolls his eyes way too dramatically before grabbing his brother at the shoulder and pushing him toward the stairs. “Just go to sleep,” he orders. “I don't wanna see your stupid face until tomorrow.”

“I love you, too.”

Sam scoffs. “If you're not gonna sleep like a baby, I'll haunt you, alright? So you better put some real effort into this.”

“I'll do my best.”

And Dean honestly means it.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


But he can't sleep.

Dean tries, he really does, but as soon as he closes his eyes he sees Finley's smug smile right in front of him and every nerve cell starts to scream, jolting him even more awake than before.

He attempts to count sheep and listen to supposedly relaxing music, he even reads that super boring ancient text Sam sent him via e-mail a while ago, hoping it would drift him right into sleep without much trouble, but it's a futile endeavor. Also the hundred push-ups he does right after don't help at all.

Rather sooner than later Dean finds himself roaming through the house. At first he checks every single window and door, every single warding and protection sigil, making sure everything is still in place and working properly. Both Sam and Castiel assured him more than once that this place is about as safe as the bunker itself, but he still feels calmer about that after looking for himself. Better safe than sorry.

Eventually his feet carry him to the kitchen and he gets himself some warm milk because he read somewhere that might actually help before just he moving around aimlessly, wishing it would give him the last kick and tire him out enough to just collapse on the bed and conk out.

It doesn't help either.

Mainly because his feet carry him to Castiel's bedroom more than once during his late night strolls. Castiel left his door a gap wide open, so Dean can easily take a quick look around. He tells himself he's doing this for security reasons, making sure that everything is alright, but deep down he knows he's just fooling himself. Watching Castiel lying in his bed, breathing and unharmed, fills Dean with a sense of calm he hasn't felt very often before.

The urge to go inside, crawl into bed right next to Castiel, watch his relaxed features more closely (since from his point of view it's way too dark to see anything of Castiel's face apart from a vague guess), gets stronger and stronger everytime and he runs out of excuses at some point.

Sure, on a rational level he knows it's absolutely nuts to just walk into a friend's room and join him in his bed and he tells himself so _over and over_ again, but his gut tries to convince him it's the right thing to do to finally find some peace.

God, he's so freaking pathetic.

It seems like he's never gonna be able to sleep ever again.

At least until he knows Castiel is back at the bunker, safe and sound, surrounded by hundreds and thousands of safety measures, supernatural and otherwise, far away from Finley and any other sort of possible threat.

Tomorrow.

He'll be back there tomorrow.

Dean sure as well can wait til then.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


It's way past midnight when Dean finds himself once again lying in his bed and trying to re-read “Cat's Cradle”, hoping that the familiarity would lure him into sleep, as suddenly a figure appears on his doorstep.

Dean snaps to attention immediately, ready to storm into battle and fight til his dying breath, no matter what, until he eventually recognizes the dark shape underneath the threshold, illuminated by the light coming from the hallway behind him.

“Cas?”

Castiel merely stares at him for a moment, his eyes narrowed – either because of disapproval or lack of sleep, Dean can't really tell –, before he finally orders, “Follow me!”

Despite his hair being a mess, his voice being freaking raw, and his clothing choices – a ratty t-shirt and some sweatpants – far from intimidating, Dean finds himself obeying his command without a second thought. He throws the book to the side and scrambles out of his bed instantly.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, worried. “Did something happen? Are you alright?”

Castiel sighs deeply. “Just follow me,” he repeats, fairly impatient now.

Dean frowns, but eventually does as he's told, figuring that Castiel has a very good reason for kicking him out of bed. The guy wouldn't just interrupt Dean's (admittedly unsuccessful) attempts of sleep for nothing.

After turning off his bedside lamp (as Castiel tells him to, his voice so deep and gravelly Dean's unable to deny him anything) he follows Castiel across the hallway into the master bedroom and tries to not even bat an eyelash when Castiel closes the door behind them.

“What's going on, Cas?” Dean wonders, getting concerned now. Due to better lighting he's able to see the bags underneath Castiel's eyes perfectly and though Dean probably doesn't look much better (most likely even worse) he doesn't waste one single thought on himself. “Why are you up? You should be resting, man.”

Castiel obviously tries to glare at him, but since his drowsiness is apparently affecting his ability to visualize the whole amount of his crankiness for other people it rather seems like he's having a stroke.

“Dean –”

“What's going on, buddy? Did something wake you up?”

“Yes –”

Dean's gaze immediately slides to the window, half expecting to see Finley on the other side of the glass, waving smugly at him. His blood runs cold when he realizes he left his gun in his room, right underneath the pillow, far out of his reach.

“What was it?” Dean urges, his body tensing up as he scans the perimeter on instinct. “Where did it come from? What –?”

He instantly halts when Castiel suddenly lays his finger on Dean's lips.

“Dean,” he whispers, his voice both annoyed and soft, “you really have to calm down. Nothing bad happened, I promise.”

Still baffled by the skin-to-skin contact Dean stays quiet, merely nodding slightly.

“I only brought you here because I have a favor to ask that will do both of us good, I believe,” Castiel continues.

Dean frowns. “And what is that?”

“I want you to sleep with me.”

Every single brain cell in Dean's head comes to a screeching halt as he hears those words.

And for way too long he simply gapes and wonders whether he did actually fell asleep at some point and started having one of his smutty dreams again.

More often than not they featured Castiel anyway.

“I know it's unconventional and you're probably about to throw a fit at the mere suggestion, but you most obviously _need_ it.”

Dean blinks a few times.

_What_?

“And I was willing to ignore it because you're stubborn as a donkey sometimes, but Dean, you're wandering around the house for hours now,” Castiel says. “I can't pretend nothing is going on anymore. You're _exhausted_ , Dean. You need rest. And I believe you will only get it here. With me.”

Castiel points at the bed which looks big and comfy and absolutely terrifying while Dean's having a hard time wrapping his head around the other man's words.

_God_ , he's really tired.

“Uh … so you're saying –?”

“After everything that happened you're clearly having trouble stepping down,” Castiel says, his tone much gentler now. “You've been on edge for over a week, barely slept or ate, and apparently you're unable to shut it off on your own. I understand, it's been hard on you, and to ask you to just let it go like that isn't exactly fair. So I'm offering some comfort, for both of us.”

Dean lifts a brow, still not really wiser than before. “By … sleeping with me?”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “That's not a problem, right?”

That's not a problem on _so_ many levels.

However, Dean's still got the feeling he's missing something. Castiel can't actually mean _that_ , right?

“It's originally been your mother's suggestion when we talked on the phone last night,” Castiel adds as an afterthought.

Yeah, okay, he probably doesn't mean _that_.

At least Dean really hopes his mom wouldn't pimp him out like that.

“So, my mom wants you and I to cuddle, am I getting this right?” Dean scoffs. “You wanna sing some lullaby too?”

“I can do that, if it would help.” Castiel most definitely noticed the bite in Dean's voice, but as usually chose to ignore it. He always does that to drive the hunter crazy.

“Okay, listen, I don't need you to coddle me,” Dean hisses. “So how about you go back to your bed and I climb back into mine and we forget the whole thing? It sounds lovely to me.”

Castiel's face darkens. “You think it'll be as easy as that?” he asks. “I'm awake b _ecause of you_ , Dean. I've been hearing you walking around the house and I can't find any sleep either knowing you're struggling with finding some peace.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “If you leave now, I will guarantee you that I won't be able to rest for the rest of the night.”

Dean squints his eyes. That _freaking bastard_!

“You're _blackmailing_ me to stay with you tonight?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “C'mon, man, are you actually serious?”

“I am.”

Dean closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath, attempting to clear his tumbling thoughts. “So you're really okay with – with me climbing into your bed and … and _sleeping_ there … right next to you …?”

Castiel rolls his eyes, making it more than obvious that he truly doesn't understand Dean's reluctance. “I don't see the problem here. You haven't left my side since the attack. What's different now?”

Damn, that guy honestly is a fucking alien sometimes!

“You really have to ask that?” Unconsciously he takes a step closer to Castiel, decreasing the already minimal distance between them once more. “It's one thing to stay in your hospital room and nap on a crappy chair, but it's _totally_ different to … to …”

He trails off, not really sure if he's able to put it into words without his voice failing him somehow and making the whole situation worse. Instead he points to the bed insistently, hoping to make a point.

“So you're saying I'm so appalling you don't want to be that close to me?” Castiel wonders, a waver in his tone that makes it crystal clear that he doesn't believe this for one second, but still wants to test Dean's reaction.

“ _What_? No, you freaking moron!” Dean is quick to deny, scowling at him. “I'm not saying _that_. Don't put words in my mouth!”

“But we're friends, right?” Castiel tilts his head. “Friends are allowed to give each other comfort.”

“Yes, of course –”

“So?” Castiel raises a brow. “We will both be much happier and more inclined to find some sleep if you would just stay here. Problem solved.”

Dean wants to argue and fight, but the truth is, Castiel is kinda right, as infuriating as that might be. Deep down the thought of not being in Castiel's presence, not knowing if he's well and safe and warm, kept Dean awake all these hours and there seriously seems to be no other solution to this mess than getting into the guy's proximity again and make sure for himself that everything is alright.

He probably will _indeed_ be capable of relaxing while listening to Castiel's steady breathing.

But that honestly doesn't mean he's gonna be able to sleep _at all_ with the guy  lying beside him, only inches between them, Castiel's body heat radiating like a furnace, his hot breath skidding over Dean's skin, his _everything_ so close to touch …

Yeah, there's _no way in hell_ Dean's gonna be able to calm down like that!

Suddenly Castiel takes his hand and tentatively squeezes it, making Dean's heart do a little somersault in the process. “Just stop overthinking this and come sleep with me.”

Dean winces at the phrasing. “You seriously shouldn't say it like that.”

The edges of Castiel's mouth twitch upwards as he studies Dean's uncomfortable expression. “For a minute there you believed I was offering you sexual intercourse, right? I saw it on your face.”

He sounds way too amused, the fucker, and Dean finds himself grimacing very hard. “Don't rub it in.”

“You don't have to worry,” Castiel says, gently petting Dean's wrist and somehow looking both smug and soft – a combination Dean never really thought possible. “I would never offer sex for the _sole_ reason of wearing us out and putting us both to sleep. Firstly, I strongly believe you need a much better motivation than insomnia to become so intimate with each other, it's way too important to use it like some sort of substitute for sleeping pills.”

Dean swallows, not sure if he's supposed to agree or even respond in any way at all. So he settles for staring and trying desperately to contain all the emotions running wildly through his mind (and other body parts).

“And secondly,” Castiel continues, his smile turning sly now, “it would have been counterproductive anyway.”

Dean can't help wrinkling his forehead in confusion now. “How so?”

Castiel steps closer, his breath intermingling with Dean's. “Us both having sex would have kept us awake _All. Night. Long._ ”

Dean's eyes widen as he watches Castiel's pleased grin blossoming before turning toward the bed and pulling Dean with him, the hunter absolutely helpless to resist in any manner whatsoever.

It's official now!

There is _no fucking way_ Dean will be able to sleep tonight!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, I'm evil and awful for breaking it up here ;D
> 
> I'm awaiting your cries of distress and your death threats impatiently xDD


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey fellas!!
> 
> Hope you're all good and awesome as ever :D
> 
> This time I'm bringing you a quiet, fluffy, snuggly chapter!! I think after all the drama and angst our favorite guys deserve that, am I right? ;)
> 
> Have fun!
> 
> -

Dean hesitates to join Castiel in bed.

It actually looks easy enough, just crawling underneath the covers and put as much space as possible between them, but Dean can't help remembering that it's been a long ass time since he shared the bed with someone for the whole night. Granted, there were a few one night stands over the time, however, they never stuck around for a nice afterglow nap or even til the next morning. Dean's never been comfortable with falling asleep next to a stranger and making himself vulnerable in the process.

Letting his guard down in the presence of someone else – it needs a huge amount of trust.

And Dean Winchester doesn't trust easily.

With Castiel, of course, he's the safest he could ever be. But at the same time it's really fucking dangerous because the chance of getting too comfy and becoming careless in a whole different manner are ridiculously high.

So yes, Dean hesitates.

Big time.

“What's the matter?” Castiel wonders as he already slips into bed, grabs the blanket and pulls it over his legs. “You afraid I'm going to grope you in your sleep?”

Dean snorts at that. It actually doesn't sound so bad.

“I'm more concerned of you choking me with your runner calves,” Dean jokes, but regrets it immediately since making it obvious that he notices certain parts of Castiel's body is probably not the wisest move to make this as painless as manageable.

Castiel, though, simply laughs. “I'll try to restrain myself.”

Dean nods jerkily and hastily climbs into bed before he'd say anything else stupid. He forces himself not to overthink this too much, not to make such a big deal out of this. They're just two friends helping each other finding rest.

That's normal, right?

The mattress is comfortable – no memory foam, naturally, but close enough –, the covers soft and the whole thing so freaking warm Dean already feels his eyelids getting heavy.

It shouldn't be much of a hardship to get some peace here.

In theory, at least.

The company, however, is very distracting. Castiel isn't lying fairly close, for a change apparently respecting Dean's personal space, but he's still _there_ , his entire being so prominent the hunter's unable to focus on anything else. He _hears_ Castiel breathing, low and steady, he _sees_ his silhouette in the dim light that falls through the window, he _smells_ his unique scent – ozone and lime, for whatever reason – and all in all it's driving Dean crazy.

Yeah, sleeping seriously doesn't sound like an option.

Castiel seems to notice his tension right away. “I highly suggest you to relax.”

Dean rolls his eyes. As if it's as simple as that. “Shut up, smartie pants.”

It stays quiet after that for a while, at least long enough that Dean finds himself wondering in surprise whether Castiel honestly listened to him, but then Castiel raises his voice once again, “Would you maybe like a bedtime story?”

Dean's so baffled by the unexpected offer that he barks a laugh so loud Castiel actually flinches. “ _Really_? A fucking bedtime story?”

Castiel shrugs his shoulders. “It can be very effective.”

Dean shakes his head in disbelief. How the hell did he end up here, sharing a bed with Castiel of all people and about to hear a sweet children fairy tale? Perhaps there's even a chance for some warm milk and having his boo-boos kissed.

“Keep it to yourself,” Dean grumbles. “I'm not four years old.”

As usual, Castiel chooses to ignore him. “Once upon a time there was a princess …”

Is this seriously happening?

“Cas!” he sighs, feeling tired and exhausted and annoyed and yet weirdly warmed by the other man's attempts to help him sleep.

“What?” The scarce light makes it impossible to see Castiel's eyes, but Dean actually _feels_ them sparkling. “Claire always enjoyed my stories.”

Dean wants to offer a sarcastic remark to that, at the mention of Castiel's niece, though, it gets stuck in his throat. “How is she?”

As soon as Castiel was capable of holding a phone after he had woken up from the coma, he instantly called his family. Dean gave him some privacy for that, so he's got no idea how the conversation really went, but Castiel told him afterwards that everyone had been extremely worried about him.

No surprise there, of course.

He still remembers talking with Jimmy, the concern and despair so strongly in his voice that it almost broke Dean's heart.

“Claire keeps sending me messages throughout the day now,” Castiel continues as Dean nods along. He already noticed Castiel being busier with his phone than usual. “And according to Jimmy she gets very anxious when I don't answer within a certain amount of time. It's a bit stressful for me, I have to admit, since I still have to rest a lot and sometimes I miss her texts and of course she gets that, on a logical level, but she becomes worried nonetheless, she can't help herself –”

Before he knows what he's even doing, Dean reaches out and pats Castiel's shoulder in a reassuring manner. “She'll be fine.”

It might be a distant dream now, but eventually time will calm her down and teach her that she doesn't have to go insane with concern for her uncle every second of every day.

At some point Dean might learn, too.

Probably.

Castiel fell silent in the meantime, most likely thinking about his niece and calculating sixteen different tactics at the same time how to make her happy again, exhausting himself in the process even further.

And it kinda rubs Dean the wrong way.

Castiel really shouldn't be worried about other people right now. Sure, Dean gets it, he _really_ does – you can't just  blend out your loved ones like that –, but Castiel's supposed to rest and heal and be coddled.

He should be at peace while getting back to full strength.

Dean sighs deeply. It seems like a distraction is in order. “Okay, you weirdo, now I'm hooked. What happens with the princess?”

The diversion is lame at best and despite his poor social skills Castiel probably knows that just as much as Dean, but instead of huffing in annoyance and turning around while muttering some profanities underneath his breath, his teeth glint in the dim light, indicating a smile.

“Well, as I said before, once upon a time there was a princess …”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Obviously Dean did fell asleep at some point.

He can't recall exactly when – the only thing he's able to remember is the deep rumble of Castiel's voice as he was telling his very weird story about princesses, bees and space cowboys hunting a fugitive flock of cows –, but at some point all the pent-up exhaustion from the last few days seemingly caught up with him. He felt safe and cozy enough for the time being and drifted off without even hearing the end of Castiel's odd tale.

(And while one part of Dean is grateful for that, another part actually would like to know if those cows eventually found their way back home.)

The room is quiet, dark, and a quick glance at the alarm clock tells Dean it's shortly after 3 AM. He already feels his lids drooping only looking at it.

It's way too early to be conscious.

Not after finally being capable of catching some uninterrupted and peaceful sleep instead of uncomfortable naps filled with nightmares and cricked necks.

Dean's attention slides toward the body next to his right away. It grew into some reflex over the course of last week, instantly searching for Castiel mere milliseconds after opening his eyes.

Making sure he's okay.

Breathing.

Alive.

Thankfully – and probably not fairly surprisingly, considering the circumstances, no matter how much Dean's brain tried to convince him otherwise – Castiel seems perfectly fine.

Calm. Deeply asleep.

His features relaxed.

And apparently all in all not really bothered by the other man in his bed.

On the contrary.

They gravitated closer to each other during the night, so it appears. There is still some distance between them – not really respectable, but bearable –, however, their feet got entangled at some point and Castiel's hand is clutching Dean's shirt as if he's trying to hinder the hunter from leaving.

Dean can't help a mild scoff assessing the situation. Just a few weeks ago this specific scenario – sharing a bed, _touching_ – would've been just laughable. So freaking unbelievable Dean wouldn't have spared one single second to even try to picture it.

And now they're here.

In the back of his mind Dean knows he should put back some distance between them. He already figured climbing into this fucking bed a huge mistake and now there's actual physical contact involved –

It's getting dangerous.

It's most likely only a matter of time until Dean does something very stupid (even stupider than playing footsies with the guy!!!) and he should just back off before he'll humiliate himself any further.

It's only logical.

The problem is, however, Dean tends to ignore logic when he's sleepy and way too comfortable to change anything about his current situation.

And _damn_ , he feels damned good with Castiel so close nearby, his breath brushing over the hunter's skin, and even the mere idea of moving a tiny muscle, not to mention his whole frigging body, seems like a challenge beyond words.

It's not really worth the effort.

So instead Dean drifts back to sleep and thinks, _next time_.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Well, _next time_ Dean finds himself in an even more compromising position.

The sun's obviously on the verge of rising, the sky lit in a soft red, when Dean wakes up once again and realizes that they somehow managed to decrease the space between them to something barely existent.

Dean pressed his face into Castiel's chest at some point during the night while the Man of Letters wrapped his arms around Dean's torso in an almost protective manner.

They're close – so fucking close – and Dean _smells_ and _feels_ everything, it's nearly overwhelming.

His brain makes a weak attempt to freak out, to let him finally see sense _now, for God's sake –_

But at the same time Dean can't remember ever feeling so relaxed, so at ease –

So peaceful –

So – 

So … 

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Dean doesn't know how late it is when he wakes up once more.

He blinks his eyes and instinctively reaches out for the body next to him, but comes up totally empty. For a moment he freezes up in reflex, horror scenarios already beginning to form inside his mind, but before he's able to get himself fully worried about Castiel's whereabouts he notices the door being open a gap and soft voices coming from the hallway.

“ … got a call from the bunker,” someone says who sounds suspiciously like Sam. “I should head back and help along getting your examination into gear.”

“I could make you some breakfast first,” the second voice offers, so gravelly and rough it's not a hardship to recognize. Dean feels himself unconsciously relaxing hearing it, healthy and alive.

“I'll get some breakfast at the bunker, don't worry,” Sam waves him off. “You should keep on resting, Cas.”

“You're right,” Castiel answers after a slight pause and there's a specific waver in his tone Dean can't exactly identify.

Is he thinking about the hunter in his bed? Did he notice them getting physically closer over the night as well when he woke up?

What did run through his head then?

If Dean would be more lucid, he'd probably freak out a little bit right now. For now, though, he simply buries his face in the pillow that smells so much like Castiel and hopes he'll finish his conversation with Sam sometime soon and come back to bed.

“Can you maybe tell Dean?” Sam wonders. “The door to his room is closed and I don't wanna wake him. He needs sleep as much as you do.”

“Probably even more,” Castiel says.

Dean takes a moment to realize that Sam still believes his brother in the guestroom, sleeping all by himself.

“As far as I noticed, he fell asleep very late last night,” Castiel continues. “We really shouldn't disturb him.”

“Right,” Sam agrees. “That idiot is taking too much onto his shoulders …”

Their voices are trailing off after that and Dean finds no real energy to double his effort to listen in. Whatever they're discussing, he's quite sure his _let's-share-our-precious-feelings_ brother will let him know soon enough anyway.

Dean doesn't know how much time went by (it's certainly possible that he drifted back to sleep at some point), but eventually he feels the bed dip down again and another body slipping under the covers again.

For a moment Dean hesitates, wondering if he should just let sleep take him over once again, just as he is. Lying on his side of the bed, no inappropriate touching. No awkwardness in the morning.

(Or, well, no _more_ awkwardness.)

It seems like the best solution.

Then again, Castiel is all warm and nice and he smells so freaking good, no real man would be able to resist that without keeping his sanity intact. It's almost impossible to ignore.

So. Freaking. Impossible.

And before he even knows what he's doing, Dean wraps his arm around Castiel's chest, presses his nose into the other man's neck and sighs quietly.

All or nothing, so it seems.

Deep down Dean knows that this is all kinds of fucked up. His brain is yelling at him to back down and respect the personal space he always reminds Castiel to acknowledge. But dammit, he's groggy and Castiel's is that huge furnace of warmth and safety right beside him, so why the hell should he ignore that?

He can always blame his sleep deprivation later on.

Castiel tenses up at the first unexpected contact and a part of Dean already prepares himself for the guy to recoil and to not take it too personally, however, after a beat of nearly deafening silence Castiel begins to deflate, obviously accepting Dean's need for a good old-fashioned snuggle.

At some point he even tentatively places his hand on Dean's hair and, when the hunter makes a pleased noise, starts to massage his skull carefully. His fingers are like freaking magic and Dean goes boneless more or less immediately.

“Go back to sleep,” Castiel whispers gently, his breath skidding over Dean's skin.

And Dean just does that.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


The next time he wakes up alone yet again.

The space beside him is still warm, so not much time has passed since Castiel left the bed. Dean perks up his ears, trying to determine where Castiel went. Just to the bathroom to take care of business before coming back underneath the covers?

Dean smiles involuntarily at the image, although he knows he probably shouldn't.

Still, he wonders whether Castiel might return soon.

But he revises this straightaway when he glances at the alarm clock and realizes it's after 4 PM. Dean's eyes widen in shock and he stumbles out of bed before he's even able to wrap his head around the information.

Fuck it all to hell, he almost slept through the entire day!

Why did no one bother to wake him?

Grumbling and still overly tired he heads toward the bathroom before eventually shuffling down the stairs, probably looking like a zombie trying its best not to trip over their own stiff legs, and making a beeline toward the kitchen where he hears some movement.

He finds Castiel standing in front of the open fridge, eyeing its content as though he's not sure what to do with it.

He's still dressed in his sleeping clothes – loose sweatpants, an old shirt, bare feet – and it's so freaking different to the Castiel he once knew before all this shit went down, Dean can't help halting still and just observe for a moment.

Castiel never dressed casual before, at least not in Dean's presence. Granted, they only ever met in the bunker and that's foremost Castiel's workplace, so you wouldn't find him running around in pj's all day through the hallways for sure, but still, he also spends most of his nights there, has got his own room and everything, so it wouldn't have been totally out of place to see him put of his slacks and ugly sweater vests once in a while.

But no, he always dressed proper (yet with a horrible fashion sense) and Dean never even got a glance of his toes before.

Now, however, he looks comfortable and relaxed and the hunter wonders whether that's due to the place (since this is Castiel's private home instead of a freaking military bunker) or the company.

Dean kinda hopes it's a bit of both.

“Morning,” he mumbles eventually, when his staring starts to get a little creepy. His voice is scratchy as hell and he instantly clears his throat before walking toward the sink to grab some tap water, but Castiel is quicker and pushes a bottle in Dean's hands.

“Morning has long passed,” Castiel corrects him, chuckling. “Good afternoon, Dean.”

The hunter frowns as he downs a big gulp of water. “Why didn't you wake me up sooner?” he complains. “I almost missed the whole day.”

“You slept for fourteen hours straight,” Castiel says. “Don't you think your body needed the rest? Still needs it?”

Dean pulls a face, but is unable to deny that fact. He wouldn't have been nearly unconscious for that long if his whole system didn't crave sleep like a thirsty man.

“Okay, whatever, _Mom_ ,” he waves him off, pouting exaggeratingly. “I'm up now and I need some food before going back to the resting bit.”

Castiel nods, looking kinda serious now. “I'm not very stocked, I'm afraid. Usually when I spend the weekend home, I pay the grocery store a visit beforehand. It wouldn't make much sense to stash a lot of perishable stuff here.”

Dean sees a point there. Most of the food would go bad in the time Castiel's at the bunker.

“I've got a lot of cans, of course,” Castiel continues. “We could look if we could make something decent out of them. Though it's mostly just beans and fruit.” He shrugs, not looking apologetic at all for his horrible food choices. “There's some things in the freezer, too, but naturally this would take some time to defrost. The only thing available right now without much effort is some meatloaf leftovers, but it's not much. Apparently we've been very famished yesterday and nearly ate the whole thing.”

Dean's seriously not ashamed of inhaling such delicious pieces of magnificence.

“Of course we could just go to the next grocery store,” Castiel suggests. “It's just a ten minute drive –”

“No!” Dean says vehemently. “We're not leaving.”

He'd rather live with a rumbling stomach all day than have Castiel outside longer than strictly necessary. They're moderately safe in this highly warded house and Dean's not in the mood to risk that.

Granted, the Men of Letters have their eyes in Lebanon almost everywhere, so even if Finley followed them all the way back she would have been noticed at the latest when she crossed the town's border, but it still doesn't sit well with Dean to leave this place. He's not on the top of his game – far from it, actually – and dragging Castiel into danger just to buy some eggs and milk is certainly out of the question.

Castiel doesn't seem surprised by Dean's answer. “I figured as much,” he says. Weirdly enough he doesn't really sound annoyed, like the hunter would've expected. “We can always order some takeout.”

Dean grimaces once again. “I don't think –”

“Finley won't sit next to the phone of a random pizza place, waiting for us to call and reveal our current whereabouts!” Castiel cuts in. “I'm hungry and if you're not allowing me to go to the grocery store, that's the only alternative.”

Dean grinds his teeth. He knows that he's overthinking the whole thing, that there's no harm in ordering some food, but he can't help himself. He's always been an obnoxious mother-hen.

“Okay, fine,” he gives in. “Pizza for breakfast. Sounds good to me.”

Castiel nods, obviously pleased by Dean's acceptance. “How about we watch the next _Back to the Future_ movie? I heard it's on Netflix and you probably know your brother's password, am I right?”

Dean arches a brow. “You wanna –?”

“Netflix and chill,” Castiel agrees, smiling. “That's what's it called nowadays, isn't it?”

Dean wants to snort, but the entire thing is way too endearing and he finds himself making some embarrassing noise instead and immediately covers it with an awkward cough. “What, um … what about the Men of Letters?”

“They have some business to attend to first,” Castiel informs him. “They won't be here for a few more hours, at the least.”

Dean licks his lips. On the one hand it seems risky to spend further time in Castiel's direct presence without some other person working as a buffer.

Just the two of them, sitting on the couch, enjoying some takeout and a good movie – it sounds dangerous.

Intimate.

But hell, it seems pretty nice, too.

As soon as he gives his approval with a simple nod Castiel practically beams at him and grabs his phone to make the call, not even bothering to ask for Dean's order because they obviously know each other so well by now they don't have to wonder anymore.

Damn, when did that happen?

Dean seriously needs to start paying closer attention.

When Castiel ends the phone call in record time and drops onto the couch next to Dean, a bit closer than strictly necessary, the hunter eyes him for a while silently, different thoughts running through his head.

“How long have you been awake?” he eventually settles on.

Castiel tilts his head before glancing to the clock on the wall. “A few hours.”

“Have you been in bed with me the whole time?” Dean wonders and immediately begins to blush when he realizes how that sounds.

Thankfully, Castiel doesn't comment on it, he simply nods. “You started to stir every time I tried to stand up. And since you looked so peaceful in your sleep, I didn't want to interrupt.” He pats Dean's knee, a smile flickering over his lips. “Don't worry, I entertained myself plenty. I finally finished the book on my nightstand and got addicted to _candy crush_.”

Dean presses his lips into a thin line. In a perfect, not awkward world he would now joke about Castiel's lifelong aversion of technology or something similar without him clamming up and getting all kinds of flustered. Just acting casual and teasing, like some former-enemies-now-somewhat-friends.

However, the world is neither perfect nor non-awkward.

Never was and never will be.

So instead of being cool and nonchalant his brain starts to somersault at the image of Castiel lying in bed with him, _awake_ and _aware_ of everything around him, particularly of a certain touch-starved hunter who turned into some snuggle octopus over night. Was Dean aligning his body with Castiel's whole night long? Did he nuzzle his face into the other man's neck? Did he mumble in his sleep?

Did he make an utter fool of himself?

God, Dean really doesn't wanna know!

But, as expected, Castiel just doesn't leave the entire mess unspoken between them for all eternity. “So, are we going to talk about it or are you intent on ignoring it like you usually do?”

Dean shuts his eyes for a minute and wills his body to fucking obey his wishes for once instead of losing control and doing stupid shit like flushing all over or stuttering like a thirteen-year-old confronted with their crush. “How about you just shut up?”

Castiel eyes him with an intense expression. “How about no?”

Dean shoots the guy his most impressive glare. “Look at you, getting all cheeky. Being in a coma for a week obviously killed your self-preservation.”

“You've got more than enough for both of us,” Castiel counters, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “And what are you gonna do to me? Break my nose? Rip off my head.” He scoffs. “Oh please, you've never been that intimidating as you would have liked to be.”

Admittedly, that seems to be kinda true. Castiel never backed off, even when Dean had been _really pissed_ and a serious force to reckon with. Damn, the bastard didn't even flinch once in all the years they know each other.

Castiel hasn't been impressed by Dean's hunter-macho-strong-guy demeanor even for one single moment.

And he certainly won't start now, after Dean staying by his bedside for a week, almost going crazy with worry and basically declaring his undying love when Castiel opened his eyes again.

Yeah, there's no chance in hell Dean's death glares will have any impact on the dude.

“What do you want?” Dean asks grouchily. “Admit my shame?”

“There is nothing shameful –”

“Did you take pictures?” Dean interjects, grimacing at the thought. He made himself way too vulnerable last night. “Are you gonna show them to Balthazar and Sam and have a good laugh?”

Castiel's features turn earnest. “I would _never_ do such a thing!” he says with conviction. “I confess, maybe for a second I considered taking a few pictures. But _not_ to show them off to whoever!”

Dean lifts his brow. “For your own personal collection then?”

He's not really sure what to think about that.

“It's just …” Castiel heaves a sigh, obviously searching for the right words. “You looked _peaceful_. Unguarded. And, quite frankly, rather adorable.”

Dean's heart skips a beat after that.

_Dammit_.

Why the hell does that asshat always have to say what's on his mind, no matter how awkward things might get? Why the fuck did his parents and teachers forget to teach him valuable lessons about social manners and what's appropriate to say and what's not?

You don't tell your former-enemies-now-somewhat-friends that they're adorable!

You just don't!

“And there is nothing shameful about craving human contact,” Castiel continues. “I didn't mind the cuddling. On the contrary, I've got to admit, it's been outright nice.”

And now he has to frigging add that he _enjoyed_ it?

Shit, Dean's cheeks heat up so fast he's unable to stop it.

“Don't … don't take it personally or anything,” Dean mutters, squirming uncomfortably. “I'm just a freaking sleep cuddler by default. My whole body works on its own as soon as I feel warm and safe –”

Dean halts instantly and presses his lips together.

_That_ probably didn't help the situation at all!

Castiel, though, merely smiles at him, way too fond, and Dean's got no clue how to deal with that.

“I honestly didn't mind,” he says gently. “As a matter of fact, the next time you have the urge to cuddle again you're very welcome in my bed.”

DAMMIT. ALL. TO. HELL!

Castiel's obviously trying to fucking kill him!

And he might be actually successful rather sooner than later.

That bastard!

“I hate you,” Dean hisses, narrowing his eyes.

Castiel simply laughs. “I know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope you had some fun ^^
> 
> Next time you'll get teasing!Sam, flustered!Dean and some jealous!Cas ;D  
> Til next time!!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!!
> 
> I'm really sorry this chapter took a bit longer, but I had a big project to finish (if you're following my other stories as well you know what I mean ;D) and it took more of my time than anticipated.
> 
> But damn, that whole thing is wrapped up now and I can't wait to give this story my sole attention :D
> 
> (Well, okay, not my “sole”, unfortunately I still have to adult and stuff, but you know what I mean *lol*)
> 
>  
> 
> To make the long absence up somehow this chapter is extra long and, as promised, contains jealousy and a lot of teasing ;)
> 
> Enjoy!!
> 
> -

As soon as they are back to the bunker, Castiel is immediately surrounded by so many concerned people Dean's just able to sidestep in time before being pushed forcefully out of the way.

Both Anna and Balthazar hug the living daylight out of the poor guy and for about ten minutes they're not willing to let go at all. At some point Sam joins as well, obviously deeply affected by all the display of affection right in front of him, while Dean simply stifles a laugh at Castiel's pained expression.

And it doesn't get better for him after that.

For about the whole evening he's coddled by everyone close by. Even some Men of Letters from other headquarters apparently came over sometime in the past, eager to see their friend alive and well in person. Castiel is wrapped in several blankets, constantly harassed with tea and soup and snuggled and cuddled at like a toddler.

And you can honestly see how touched he is by all that attention, though truly miserable at the same time. He's obviously way over his head by all of this.

Thankfully it somewhat tames down in the next few days. Admittedly, everyone is quick to make him feel comfortable, so he doesn't have to strain himself too much, but at least the blankets disappear one by one at some point, next to the constant and absolutely insistent questions about his well-being. Dean has no idea whether Castiel put his foot down to make it all stop or whether it's just a natural progression, but he goes with the flow.

Castiel gets his strength back quite fast, however, he still listens to the concerns all around him and limits his activities, both physical as well as mental, to a minimum. It's not easy for him after finding himself faced with his beloved books once again, Dean can see that clear as day, but he's giving his best.

He's probably calmed down seeing all the good work his colleagues did in his absence. Sam apparently didn't lie when he told Dean that the Men of Letters are doing everything in their power to find Finley. They hack, they crack, they search, they even sent a bunch of their people to Harvard to infiltrate their database and, after that turned out to be futile, have them running around on campus with a grainy picture one of the hospital's cameras took of her to show it to the students and teachers there.

Soon enough Dean jumps in as well, eager to track that bitch down and put her to justice. For days he watches the recordings of countless traffic cameras, following leads so thin they're barely visible. It's not much, it's absolutely tedious, but it's still better than doing nothing at all.

And after almost two weeks of staring at a screen he finally escapes an incoming cabin fever by going out in the field again after he heard from a group of hunters that they spotted a person near Detroit who fits Finley's description.

It's not a simple decision for Dean, though. He's doing some deep soul-searching for hours, feeling all kinds of uncomfortable leaving Castiel behind. Naturally he tells himself over and again that the bunker is the safest place to be and there's no way in freaking hell Finley would be able to just walk in and hurt Castiel once more, but rationality isn't the most prominent feature when emotions are involved.

More often than not he finds himself reminding what happened the last time he left Castiel alone.

Hell, at nights he still considers taking Castiel up on the offer and crawl into his bed to “cuddle” yet again, to have him near and safe and alive.

To know he's okay.

(And … well, the whole thing kinda felt nice, too, but that's a whole different department Dean doesn't dare to think about.)

Eventually, however, after mulling this over in his head for hours and driving everyone around him crazy, he finally decides to go. He just _has_ to do something, otherwise he'd go insane and take a lot of people with him. He's not built for sitting down when there's a big hunt going on.

So he leaves ( _after_ making Castiel promise that he would stay in the bunker at all times, of course).

And soon enough something like a routine settles in.

At first Dean is fixated on following every lead they have on Finley, as sparse they may be, but it's getting harder and harder the more time passes. She's a freaking ghost, not even a fingerprint is left behind, and without a real name and merely a description and some low quality photos the chances aren't looking very great.

No, it seems like they have to wait for Finley to resurface yet again.

So instead of getting frustrated and lashing out Dean channels his anger by killing some vampires and, about a week later, kicking a spirit's ass back into the afterlife.

Before they know it almost six weeks have passed since they came back from the hospital and though they get in some tips here and there about Finley's whereabouts, nothing concrete ever shows up. So Dean does what he does best: he hunts, he bickers with his brother, he argues with Castiel and secretly enjoys every moment of it, and he hopes that Finley is one day brash or stupid enough to let the right people see her face again.

Dean can't wait for that to happen.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


It's on a seemingly normal Thursday morning when Dean all of sudden notices that something is off.

Nothing supernatural, thank God, but still kinda alarming.

Dean picks up Castiel's weird mood at breakfast at first, but he doesn't think much of it. Castiel's never been much of a morning person, so it's actually not that rare to hear him grumbling underneath his breath until at least two mugs of coffee are running through his system properly.

However, Castiel constantly shoots the hunter odd looks and Dean can't really figure what they mean.

Did he piss him off somehow? Did he forget something important? Or did something merely crawl up Castiel's ass and die there and he's sending his glares in random directions, not intended for a particular person?

For now Dean decides to ignore it. Whatever the guy's issue is, he still has a greatly functioning mouth and is able to use it in times of need.

So yes, Dean does his own thing for the rest of the morning, keeping his safe distance.

But when around noon Castiel's strange mood even seems to get worse, Dean can't take it anymore.

“Okay, dude, what is going on?” he urges, dropping onto the chair right across Castiel's. “Did someone piss into your cereal or something?”

Castiel frowns at him. “I didn't have cereal today,” he counters, confused.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I mean, you seem on edge since this morning. Everything okay?”

Castiel licks his lips, apparently contemplating how to phrase his next words, while Dean finds himself entranced by the motion and studies Castiel's tongue way more intensely than platonically necessary.

“I'm just thinking,” Castiel eventually offers.

And then he falls silent again.

Dean groans internally. They obviously have to do this step by step today. “What were you thinking about?”

Something dull glazes over Castiel's eyes. “Strategic … stuff.”

Dean arches a brow. “Strategic _stuff_?”

Okay, this seems to be more than he originally thought if Castiel seriously lost his fancy vocabulary somewhere along the way. The last time this happened he had accidentally stumbled upon Balthazar's very exotic porn collection and was left so fucking traumatized he couldn't form coherent sentences for a whole week.

“And what is this strategic _stuff_ about?” Dean wonders.

Castiel squints his eyes which _does not_ look adorable. “About strategic things.”

Dean purses his lips. Damn, he's a hard nut to crack. “Like?”

“Like location. Convenience. Gas bills.” Castiel sounds strained listing this thing, like it's costing him a lot of willpower to even voice them. “Stuff like that.”

Dean quirks his head. There is something deeper going on here than Castiel being simply annoyed with administrative bullcrap. Dean knows it's not his most favorite pastime – Castiel prefers to soak up ancient Mesopotamian texts about cattle-breeding to having to deal with finances and organization –, however, he usually gets the job on the road without much complaining, probably reminding himself over and over that it's tedious work, but is has to be done.

But now he looks like he'd rather pull his teeth out than handle whatever the hell is bothering him.

“Okay, hit me!” Dean commands. “Maybe I can help.”

He actually seriously doubts that, however, it might be beneficial for Castiel to talk about it instead of eating himself up.

Castiel sighs. For a minute it looks like he's about to refuse, most likely accompanied by a snarky remark, but eventually he offers, “It's nothing really. It's just one hunter having been assigned to a case and asking for backup now. However, she requested a very specific hunter coming to her aid who is, well, not exactly close by. There are more than enough capable hunters in the vicinity.”

Dean nods in understanding. “I see.”

“And foremost it's not even the money or convenience I'm thinking about,” Castiel continues, something odd swinging in his tone. “Time could be of the essence, too. So far it doesn't seem entirely urgent – at least there hasn't been any deaths yet –, but you know how fast these things can change.”

Dean totally sees the man's point here and he's got some good arguments on his side. But there is still one thing Men of Letters never really get, no matter how long they already worked in the business.

“You're right here, dude,” Dean agrees. “From an administrative and logical point of view it'd make more sense to send some hunter nearby. More convenient that way. Cheaper. Might even save lives.” Castiel's body starts to relax at his words and Dean actually feels kinda bad when he adds, “ _But_ you're forgetting something here, man.”

Castiel frowns, clearly displeased by the objection. “And what is that?”

“In our line of work trust is a big issue,” Dean states. “You need to know that the one hunting with you has your back. It's _essential_.” He looks Castiel straight in the eye. “You need a certain understanding and that's not working with just about anyone. Sometimes you simply don't dance well together. And that might be annoying when you're working in an office or something, but it can become _life-threatening_ as a hunter.”

Something in Castiel's expression swift as he listens to Dean intently.

“Hell, I got knocked on my ass myself a few times 'cause I was working with amateurs or just hunters who function on a different level than me.” Dean shrugs. “More often than not it's hard to find someone you've got a good enough connection with so you're able to come out of the whole thing alive. So if that hunter of yours requests someone specific and it's not putting any lives at risk to wait a day or two for that fella to meet up with her, you should grant her wish.”

Castiel stays silent after that for a moment, obviously mulling Dean's words over in his head while simultaneously studying the hunter with such an intense gaze Dean's skin start to prickle in a way he can't exactly call unpleasant.

And just when Castiel is about to open his mouth, either preparing to accept Dean's statement or disregard it completely, Samquatch himself walks into the library and interrupts their staring contest with a loud, “Hey, guys!”

Castiel flinches and actually blushes a bit and Dean can't help asking himself what the hell he was on the verge of saying, regarding this very interesting reaction.

Sam, however, doesn't seem to notice their quiet exchange as his eyes land on the stack of papers in front of Castiel and his lips pull upwards.

“So you told him?” he asks Castiel before shooting a wide smirk in Dean's direction.

“Told me what?” Dean wonders at the same time as Castiel answers, “Kind of. We were just discussing a hunter requesting his presence before you came in.”

Dean arches a brow at him, his chest churning. “You were talking about me?” he asks, astonished. “Someone asked _for me_?”

Granted, it's not that big of a surprise, he's fairly known in the hunter scene and though he's got high standards and doesn't work well with anyone, there are a bunch of guys and ladies out there he'd back up in a heartbeat. But still, there's something uncomfortable settling in his stomach as he recalls Castiel's weird behavior the whole morning. Why would he act so out of sorts? It's not like he had any problem sending Dean on all these other cases before (or at least he didn't voice his concerns). But now he gets all scowly and strange?

Is there maybe something wrong about the case?

Or the person who asked specifically for him to come?

“Oh damn, is it Jo?” Dean groans, picturing the feisty blonde packing up her huge knife collection to fight monsters. “Why doesn't she listen to Ellen and let this whole hunting business go? Yeah, she's good, even crazy good probably, but I don't wanna end up in their family dispute. Ellen would blame _me_ for all of that and she's fucking terrifying, so I don't –”

“It's not Jo,” Sam cuts in, a smug grin spreading his face. “It's someone who you will even be happier to see.”

Dean creases his forehead. “I like Jo,” he mumbles since he can't just let this float in the room unsaid.

“Okay, well, _I_ am much more happier about that,” Sam corrects, rolling his eyes overdramatically. “It'll do you some good. You've been moody and on edge for months now and you _seriously_ need to get laid. And that's not something I want to think about when my brother's involved, but hell, I can't stand it anymore. It's like you're in this constant state of sexual frustration and you really have to let off some steam –”

“Okay, whoa, whoa!” Dean raises his hand, warning his brother to stop. “You obviously missed a few points here, so what the hell are you even talking about?”

He casts a quick glimpse at Castiel who apparently became more tense at Sam's words, lowering his gaze and clenching his hands into fists as though he's holding back some serious emotions.

“Yeah, right, sorry,” Sam says, waving him off. “It's Trisha Hannigan who requested your _'assistance'_ for that case of hers.”

He even uses air-quotes, probably thinking he's freaking funny.

Meanwhile, Dean just freezes.

Trisha?

Damn.

His last job with her had been a couple of months before the thing with Castiel happened. They indeed make quite a good team on hunts, so it isn't really astonishing that she's asking for his help, but mostly she prefers to work alone and only requests backup when the job is too big for just one person.

So Dean decides to ignore Sam's sly grin and asks, all professionally, “What's the job about? I guess it isn't something easy when Trisha Freaking Hannigan wants my help.”

A guarded expression flickers over Castiel's features as he turns toward the papers in front of him. “Several people claimed to hear unbearable high-pitched screeches only they were able to notice. One man tried to bash his skull in in order to get it to stop, barely surviving it.”

Dean quirks his head. “Sounds like a banshee to me.”

Nasty creatures, those bastards. Dean had to deal with one just about a year ago, helping Eileen to avenge her murdered parents and the loss of her hearing as a baby, and it hadn't been pretty.

“That's what I thought as well,” Castiel agrees, his voice a little wary as though he's waiting for a punchline or something.

“I guess I can't let Trisha handle that all on her own,” Dean says, holding Castiel's gaze. “I mean, I still owe her for saving my ass from that werewolf last time.”

Sam snorts at that. “I think you _thanked_ her well enough several times during the three additional days you two stayed at your motel room.”

Dean glares at his brother, but can't actually argue with him on that one since that's been more or less the words Dean himself used at the time. He described everything, in great detail, much to Sam's chagrin.

And Castiel, who'd been sitting nearby, hadn't looked far too happy about Dean's thorough explanation either.

_Fuck_.

“Sammy –”

“Oh, c'mon,” Sam cuts in. “Don't play coy with me. I've been hearing stories about Trisha since you've met her ten years ago and you both decided to screw each other's brains out every time you see each other.”

Castiel makes a weird noise before hastily turning his attention to the pages in front of him, probably trying and failing to mask it up somehow.

Dean, in the meantime, folds his arms across his chest. “So what? You wanna hear another tale?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I'm just saying I already took the liberty of booking _one_ room for the both of you. You can do with it whatever you want.”

Dean can't exactly be mad since it's their usual MO (well, okay, normally Sam doesn't book the room in advance 'cause this seems way too strange, to think about it). He and Trisha meet up, beat some monster butt and spend the following days in their room, having wild and athletic sex.

It's always been one of the highlights of Dean's hunting time.

Trisha is fun and ridiculously hot and, most importantly, not interested in a relationship at all. Which has been great since Dean totally likes her as a friend (even outside of work and/or sex they send each other silly text messages and stay in frequent contact), but she never ignited that specific spark that they could be something more.

So yes, it's been this friends-with-benefits arrangement since forever and Dean never shied away from bragging about it in whatever company.

Even Castiel's.

_Especially_ Castiel's, if Dean's being honest with himself.

Dean got into almost terrible details, attempting to get a rise out of Castiel. Back then he thought it hilarious, but right now he can't help hating his past self for being so damned big mouthed.

Is that why Castiel has been so weird since this morning and actually considered not telling Dean about the case at all?

Did all the stories he overheard come to his mind and he …?

He didn't want Dean to meet with Trisha?

Might that actually be true?

“So you can go and have your fun,” Sam says, jerking Dean out of his thoughts. “And maybe after that you're getting in a better mood. It's like you haven't been laid _in ages_.”

Well, considering that Trisha has been the last person he slept with, that's sadly not so far from the truth.

“This is not a booty call, dude,” Dean counters, gritting his teeth. “She's a professional, just as me. She's my friend, she needs help with the job and that's it.”

Sam rises a brow, looking all kinds of skeptical. “ _That's it_?”

Dean glowers. “I'm just saying she isn't using the official channels of the Men of Letters for me to stand in the corner, look pretty and get banged after the monster is killed. She probably heard that I've dealt with banshees before and figured I'd be the best man for the job.”

Well, okay, she also might have hoped to get laid somewhere along the way.

But since she reached out to the Men of Letters first instead of sending Dean a quick text, it's fair to assume her main priority is making this an official business and getting some monster ass killed efficiently.

“I will arrange it then,” Castiel suddenly pipes in, his voice clipped. “If the motel room is already booked anyway …”

Dean can't for the life of him determine the look on Castiel's face. For someone not used to his impeccable poker face he would appear unaffected, uninterested. Like a guy who already moved on to the next topic in his head since the current situation is almost boring him to tears.

But Dean sees it.

The twitching of his eyelid. The slight pursing of his lips. The fact that he totally avoids anyone's gazes as though he can't have people read his eyes.

He isn't unaffected at all.

No, he obviously spent the whole morning figuring out if he should send Dean to Trisha, if he should even _tell_ him to begin with. And granted, parts of that might've been since he honestly worried about expanses and convenience, but Dean's absolutely sure it's been more than that.

Something personal.

Castiel isn't happy with the situation. He isn't happy that Dean will meet up with Trisha and share a room. He isn't happy about the things this is implying.

He is …

Damn, is he _freaking jealous_?

Dean's first reaction is denial 'cause it seems so fucking surreal to even think about it. Just not so long ago he would've barked with laughter and probably fallen off his chair at the mere implication.

But now?

Things have changed between them. They call each other friends, they shared a bed together and frigging cuddled, they stay in each other's radar much more than before, they bicker and even flirt to a certain degree and Dean assumes and actually kinda hopes it's at least about 10% genuine instead of Castiel fully messing with him the whole time.

And now the hunter is about to work closely with a woman he always used to have passionate sex with and Castiel is clearly not happy about that.

Damn.

This _seriously_ sounds like jealousy.

“Try to be ready in an hour,” Castiel orders, his voice bar any emotion. “Meanwhile I will gather all the information you need.”

With that he stands up and leaves the room without looking at anybody.

Obviously more than eager to escape the situation as fast as possible.

Before Dean even knows it he leaps to his feet and rushes after him, ignoring his frowning and mildly puzzled brother, only Castiel on his mind. He's got no idea what he wants to say or do, but for the love of God, he can't just let things stay like that.

“Cas, wait!”

Castiel halts on the spot and reluctantly turns around, his eyes fixing on the wall behind Dean as if looking into the other man's eyes is too much to bear. “Is there anything else you need?”

His tone sounds so formal and professional Dean feels a cold shiver running down his spine. Castiel obviously has no intention to talk and has no shame in showing this very clearly.

“I, uh …” Dean blinks a few times, urging his stupid brain to come up with at least one coherent sentence. But it's really hard to concentrate confronted with those unnatural blue eyes, even when they're not focused on him directly. “Trisha …”

“You were right, Dean,” Castiel cuts in, according to his brief wince at Trisha's name not willing to talk about her. “Hunters need to work with people they can trust and if there are no immediate lives at stakes we should make sure to see this happen. It may be vital for their survival.”

And it seems he truly gets it and apparently kinda hates this at the same time. He doesn't want to send Dean for very personal reasons, but understand the need from a professional and logical point of view.

“I will notify Ms. Hannigan,” Castiel says. “Though you're of course welcome to tell her yourself since I'm sure you have her number.”

“Cas …”

“And be careful, banshees are not to be messed around with.”

And then he turns around again and vanishes so quickly Dean has no chance of following him.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


The ride to Trisha's location takes about seven hours and the whole time Dean can't get Castiel out of his head.

He only got to see him briefly before heading out, noticing Castiel's clenched jaw as Sam told his brother the last important details about the case and simultaneously teased him some more about Trisha and her “seductive powers”, and then that was it.

Castiel disappeared once again and Dean was left with the nagging feeling that he should do something.

But what?

Send the guy a message that he most certainly wouldn't sleep with Trisha? He'd surely wonder why Dean feels the need to clarify this and this would've lead to uncomfortable topics of conversation Dean isn't ready to have.

So what is a guy supposed to do in such a situation?

Dean's got no idea and he isn't the wiser when he eventually reaches the motel. He takes a deep breath while approaching the room number Sam told him and berates himself to get a freaking grip.

This is Trisha, for crying out loud!

It's not the end of the world.

So he knocks.

And as soon as Trisha opens the door, Dean can't help noticing she's as gorgeous as ever.

Bright eyes, dark and smooth skin, full lips, a body as sinful as hell. She cut her hair short since they last saw each other and it perfectly highlights her cheekbones now. All in all, she's the whole package.

And Dean doesn't feel a thing.

Well, okay, he _does_ feel affection and happiness since she's always been a very good friend to him and Dean loves to have her around. He constantly finds himself smiling when he gets text messages from her, looking forward to indulge in random and sometimes silly conversations about the most ridiculous stuff. She's an awesome buddy and Dean's just glad to meet up with her again after all this time.

But he doesn't feel … well, the usual thing.

Attraction.

Arousal.

Anticipation for a night (or two or three) he wouldn't be able to forget for quite a long time.

Instead of that there's _nothing_. The thought of pulling her close, kissing her, undressing her, letting her do all the naughty and kinky things she loves to do between the sheets – it doesn't appeal to him.

At all.

And he's quite sure that wouldn't even change if she'd put off her clothes right here and now in the most strippery way possible.

Damn, Dean's so screwed.

Because if an amazing woman like Trisha is unable to light a spark inside him and get him interested for even a tiny bit, there is something fundamentally wrong.

And Dean's quite certain that specific 'something' has got blue eyes, a rough voice and no fashion sense at all.

_Shit_.

“Look who the cat dragged in.” Trisha smirks and lets his gaze roam over his whole body, from top to bottom, like she's assessing every single inch of him. “You look like shit.”

Dean snorts, enjoying the playfulness in her tone. “I'm not here to win a beauty contest.”

“Shame. With a bit of work you'd seriously stand a chance.”

Dean grins as he crosses the threshold and pulls her into a hug. He always loves bickering with her, a mixture of low-key flirting and colorful insults, and he never can help himself as soon as he spots her.

“Nice to see you again,” Trisha says, her breath brushing over Dean's earlobe – and once there is _nothing_ happening in Dean's lower regions. “Thanks for helping me out with this.”

Dean pulls back a bit and stares straight into her hazel eyes. “Always, Trish. _Always_.”

Her smile softens as she steps aside to let him properly walk into the room. “Then let's talk business.”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


It's always easy with Trisha.

Smooth.

Even if they haven't seen each other for months it just doesn't feel that way. No awkwardness, no insecurities, no fumbling to find some topics to start the conversation with.

No, Trisha jumps right in, not wasting any time with all that bullshit.

For the first half hour she gets him up to speed on the case. Granted, Dean actually just wants to take a shower after that long drive and crawl underneath the sheets, but firstly, the update is fairly important, and secondly, a discussion would have to take place for that to happen he's not sure he's prepared for yet.

So he listens intently as Trisha talks about the several reports of people hearing unbearable loud screeches almost ripping apart their ear-drums right near a mansion that has been uninhabited for decades now before some investors bought it a couple of weeks ago and started renovations. Since then the workers have an awfully hard time getting their job done.

“Sounds suspiciously like a banshee,” Trisha says. “She was probably sleeping before all these people woke her up. I guess she got kinda moody over that.”

Dean can't exactly blame her, he isn't the most pleasant person to be around either when someone startles him awake.

“That's why I asked for your backup,” Trisha explains. “I know you've dealt with banshees before. I figured your expertise wouldn't hurt.”

Soon enough they find themselves lost in talking about their old cases, swapping hunter stories and trying to out-best each other like the children they secretly are ( _“A gigantic worm monster EXPLODED into my face – you seriously think you can beat that?”_ ). It's fun, it's easy and Dean enjoys every second of it.

It's when eventually the conversation is starting to lull down that Dean's getting nervous again.

“I don't know about you, but I'm beat,” Trisha says. “I've been talking to people all day and they seriously annoyed the hell out of me. I wouldn't survive one day in customer service, I can tell you that.”

She stands up and strolls toward the huge bed in the center of the room (did it even become bigger in the last half hour??) before taking off her boots carelessly and letting her fingers skid over the mattress like she's testing the material.

Or like she's inviting Dean to come along.

Dean swallows audibly. “Um … about that …”

She lifts her brow pointedly. “Yes?”

“Actually I'm not …” Dean licks his lips, avoiding her piercing gaze. She always knew how to push his buttons and in the past it turned him on to no degree, but now it's just making him deeply uncomfortable. “I'm not …”

She chuckles. “Oh, don't sweat it, Winchester,” she waves him off. “I know an exhausted man when I'm seeing one. I get it, you've been on the road for hours.” She pats on the side of the bed closest to the door, knowing fairly well that he tends to prefer that spot. “We should just _sleep_. And maybe cuddle a bit, though I know you hate to use that term.”

She grins lopsidedly, apparently proud of herself for figuring him out.

And she's right, to a certain amount. Sleeping and getting close to another person (no cuddling, thank you very much) sounds wonderful right now.

But Trisha is not the person he'd want these things to do with.

Dean heaves a deep breath. “Actually, I called the motel on my way here and booked a second room. For myself.”

It actually was one of the very first things he did as soon as he left the bunker, Castiel's expression clearly in his mind.

Meanwhile, Trisha's eyebrow lifts more upwards after that, her playfulness vanishing all of a sudden. “Oh?”

And then she falls quiet, studying him with a face so unreadable Dean wonders whether she took lessons from Castiel.

Dean begins to fidget awkwardly, asking himself if he should maybe apologize to her, tell her it's most definitely _him_ that is the problem here, not her, maybe make some kind of gesture …

And then she sighs dramatically and drops onto the bed. “It's the haircut, isn't it?” she inquires. “It's seriously turning you off, right?”

Dean blinks a few times. He kinda didn't expect that reaction. “What?”

“Damn, I probably should've gotten some hair extensions.” She runs her hand through some of her strands, bending her body in a way that's highly unnecessary for the move, but surely appealing. “I should've figured it out when I sent you a photo of it the other day and the stream of emojis in answer to that was rather sparse.”

Dean frowns. “I don't send emojis.”

Not often, at least.

Mostly just to Castiel 'cause the guy seems to love those weird yellow round faces with their countless expressions and Dean always feels odd not indulging him since … since …

Well, since Dean's obviously in deep denial about a lot of things.

Damn.

“And it's not the hair,” he adds, just to make this crystal clear.

“Are you sure? I could get a wig. Long, blonde hair, for instance.”

“I like short hair just fine.”

And dark. And messy, like a bird's nest.

Trisha chuckles, apparently amused by his fumbling, while Dean can't help feeling relief flooding his system at the sparkle in her eyes. Granted, he didn't expect her to react angry in any way, she's always been a chill bad-ass, but he anticipated a lot more confusion and maybe a tiny pang of hurt.

“Okay, then what's going on here?” Trisha asks, her voice still light, making it more than obvious that there are no hard feelings. “Is there maybe like, uh, a medical issue? Something you're embarrassed about?”

Dean wrinkles his forehead in confusion. “A medical issue?”

“Yeah, or physiological. Or even emotional.” She shrugs. “Men sometimes have some … well, _trouble_.” And then she suddenly starts to gesture vaguely at Dean's crotch area. “You don't have to feel ashamed if tiny Dean isn't performing perfectly, it's such a common thing with you guys. Seriously, you don't have to hide in an extra room because of _that_. We really can just cuddle for the rest of your stay, I'm super fine with that.”

Dean's jaw clenches as he notices the joyous glint in her eyes. She's having way too much fun with this.

“First of all: don't call my dick _tiny Dean_ , do you hear me?” With a nickname like that no normal guy would ever get a boner after that. “And everything is working _great_ , thank you very much!”

She quirks her head to one side. “Are you sure, honey? We're friends, you can tell me anything.”

Dean groans. “I'm _not_ –”

“It's just natural,” she continues mercilessly. “And I figure you being in a lot of stress, with hunting and being constantly a gift to humankind – that might have an effect on your cute little buddy over there –”

Dean grits his teeth _loudly_.

Why the hell did he ever think he liked that girl?

“You're the worst!” he hisses. “And my dick is better than ever, thank you for your misplaced and unnecessary concern. I appreciate it.”

Trisha grins widely at him. “You're very welcome, my friend. I'm just worried about your tiny pal who I'm obviously not allowed to see this time 'cause you became a monk –”

“Not a monk.”

“Then at least celibate –”

“Not celibate either.”

“Or 'cause you got seriously sick –”

“No one is sick or dying or whatever.”

“Or you decided bisexuality isn't your thing anymore and got full gay –”

“Nope, still bi.”

“Or perhaps there is someone else –”

Dean freezes.

Swallows.

And eventually croaks, “There is no one else.”

He knows he's not very convincing as soon as the words leave his mouth and Trisha perks up right away, her eyes widening.

“ _Oh my God_ , there _is_ someone else?”

Damn, Dean seriously hates his life sometimes.

“No, there is _not_!”

Trisha beams like the sun itself faces with those news. “Oh yes, _there is_! If you could see your face right now, Winchester!”

Dean leaps to his face and turns toward the exit, more than keen to leave the room and never look back ever again. “There is _not_!” he repeats again, even though it sounds weak and actually kinda pathetic. “So would you give it a rest and –”

“So you got yourself a secret girlfriend or boyfriend your brother doesn't know about?” Trisha cuts in gleefully. “I mean, I guess he doesn't have a clue since he booked this one room for us and I can't imagine him doing that if he knew –”

“I booked a second room because of personal issues!” Dean interrupts, rising his voice. “That's all I'm gonna tell you at this point, okay? I just wanna let you know it's not you or your fucking hair –”

“Good to know.”

“– but there will be no sex or cuddling or whatever happening this time,” Dean clarifies. “Sorry if I'm disappointing you.”

Trisha tilts her head and Dean can't help noting that Castiel looks way more adorable doing that. “Oh, I'm not gonna lie, I was kinda looking forward to have some fun with you. But I guess watching you all awkward and squirming like a fish is very appealing, too.”

Dean shuts his eyes. He should've known that he wouldn't have gotten away with just a flimsy excuse and have Trisha leave him in peace for the rest of the case.

“So, tell me everything!” she demands, practically brimming with excitement like a little kid discovering a candy shop. “Do I know them? Are they cute? Are they dreamy? Are they sexy? Do they know your parents? Your brother? Have you already confessed your deep and meaningful feelings to them or are you still a chicken shit –?”

Dean groans vastly.

This case are gonna feel like an _eternity_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trisha actually was supposed to stay only for half a chapter, but I kinda fell in love with her, so she's getting a bit extra time ;) I hope you don't mind, seeing as she's milking Dean for information about his “secret boyfriend” and believe me, the poor guy won't have a nice time in the next chapter ;DD
> 
> See you then!!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are again :D
> 
> As promised, Dean has to suffer in this chapter, but I guess you're gonna kinda like it anyway ;) At least I hope so!
> 
> Have fun ^^
> 
> -

Dean expects Trisha to pester him with nagging questions first thing in the morning, but thankfully she stays all professional as she pushes a cup of coffee into Dean's hands and tells him to hurry up to interview some witnesses.

The next few hours Dean spends his time talking to several people describing the high-pitched and inhuman screams that almost ripped their brains apart in almost horrible detail and eventually visiting the suspected crime scene, an old mansion at the town's border who's been inhabited for decades before some real estate company bought it a few months ago and started with renovations right away. They don't pick up anything suspicious at the site, but Dean can't really say that he's surprised by that. Banshees are still so rare there's no real consensus among the Men of Letters yet how to locate them properly. Dean's not even sure if there even is one way or if he just has to wait until that bitch appears right in front of him.

The prospect doesn't sound very thrilling, but unfortunately it's sometimes part of the job description.

Around noon Dean and Trisha find themselves in a cozy diner and the hunter basically inhales his burger while Trisha moans around her chili and instantly creates an ode for the “delicious beans that make my heart burst into starlight”. Dean laughs at her antics, once again realizing that he seriously missed that woman over the course of the last couple of months. Trisha is such a delight to have around and Dean really needs to meet up with her more than just a few times a year.

Granted, she can be an annoying menace sometimes, but hey, the most important people in Dean's lives are making his existence utterly miserable with all their teasing and bickering and sticking their noses into other people's businesses, so Trisha is honestly no exception to that.

So when she eventually, after _hours_ of keeping silent on the matter, leans over the able and urges, “Okay, shoot! You need to tell me _something_!”, Dean can't help actually smiling at her.

Well, for a split second at least.

“About what?”

Trisha scoffs, not impressed by his attitude at all. “Oh Winchester, this is _weak_. I mean, I know you don't like to talk about your feelings and stuff, but you're acting like a child here.”

Dean lifts his brow. “I'm not the one here who practically composed a song for their food, sweetheart.”

“No, you're the one avoiding questions about feelings and emotions and _love_ –” She purses her lips. “Did you really think I'd just let it rest after last night?”

Dean grimaces hard at her phrasing. “There is _nothing_ to tell!”

“You booked another room –”

“Yes, because of personal reasons!” Dean cuts in. “I don't have to go into detail here. I know you value privacy as much as the next person.”

Trisha chooses to ignore his statement as she says, “I know there is someone else. The look on your face is betraying you. Last night. _Right now_.”

She gestures in his general direction like she's trying to make a point. Like there shouldn't even be a single doubt in anyone's mind.

Like it's written law.

Dean snorts. “There's no _look_ –”

“When you think of them your eyes start to glint in that unique way,” she continues, still flailing her hands at him. “It's actually kinda cute.”

“There is no _glint_ –”

“And you're getting so passionate here,” Trisha points out, smirking. “If there indeed would be nothing going on, you'd just shrug it off. But here you are, getting all defensive –”

“You're reaching, Hannigan –”

“– only because of your secret girlfriend or boyfriend –”

“He's _not_ my boyfriend!”

And then Dean freezes since that was clearly the wrong thing to say.

Dammit.

Naturally Trisha perks up at those words immediately, a wide smile spreading across her face. “So it's a _boy_ then?” she teases. “My, my, Dean Winchester getting all riled up because of a boy.”

“How about you just shut up?” Dean interjects, wincing as he feels a headache coming his way. He rubs his temples and prays for some distraction coming his way to save him. Maybe an apocalypse or something similar convenient.

“You're aware you have so give me _something_ , right?” Trisha nudges. “I'm gonna pester you like crazy and if you're not gonna tell me anything about that lover of yours, I have to ask your brother or maybe even your mom –”

Dean raises a hand in warning. “You're a bitch, you know that?”

“Oh, I know,” she agrees, sounding entirely too proud about that.

“I should've just lied about the freaking hair cut.”

“You can't lie to me,” Trisha objects, laughing. “And you're avoiding the topic at hand, man. Tell me about your epic love story!”

Dean's chest churns at her choice of words. Though he's not exactly sure if in a bad or a good way.

“There is _nothing_ to tell,” he tries to argue. “I just booked a second room 'cause I … well, it's confusing and I think I just have to figure this shit out before jumping into bed with someone else.”

And wow, did he seriously just admit that out loud?

In the presence of another person?

God, Dean is either bone-dead tired, unable to use his brain properly anymore, or he's evolved in a way he never thought possible.

Damn, what the hell is happening to him?

“It's just … he's a fucking asshole, alright?” Dean complains. “He's grumpy and sassy and we barely agree on anything and I actually don't even like him. It'd be such a massively bad idea to even _consider_ –” He sighs. “I'm probably in serious need of a good vacation since I'm obviously losing my mind. I should go to the beach, lie in the sun, watch some hula girls.”

Because he's seriously going crazy here.

Trisha, however, doesn't seem to agree. “Aw, look at you! You're so gone on that guy!”

Dean chokes on air. “Wh- hell – _no_!”

Trisha looks at him like he's the most adorable idiot in the history of mankind. “I'm sorry to tell you, honey, but _you are_. You should see the look on your face when you're talking about that guy.”

Dean grimaces. He's apparently not the only crazy one here.

“He's a fucking jackass!” Dean says with emphasis. “And I don't – I'm not –”

“Do I know him?” Trisha interrupts, either taking pity on him or getting bored by his lame explanations attempts, Dean can't tell. “With you getting so cagey I probably know him, am I right?”

Dean pauses, meeting her gaze. It's one thing to admit to have some very complicated feelings for some dude, but to throw a name into the mix? No way in hell!

So he clears his throat and states, “No.”

Unfortunately he doesn't sound fairly convincing, even though he gave it his best.

“For someone who lies professionally, you really suck at it,” Trisha points out. “So it means I _do_ know him, huh?”

She seems highly intrigued now and Dean can't help pulling a face. Why the fuck did his stupid, reckless brain decide to tell her the truth instead of making up some fake story?

What the fuck?

“I'm not giving you any names,” Dean declares. “I'm just telling you why I got a second room, that's it. You deserve the truth and you got it. I'm not making this into a big deal, I don't wanna talk about my feelings and let you braid my hair.”

Trisha narrows her eyes. “I could always ask Sam –”

“Oh please.” Dean scoffs. “First of all, Sammy is a clueless idiot, he knows _nothing_. And secondly, I know you'd never go through with that. You've got a big mouth, but at the end of the day you're aware it's not your secret to share and you'd only feel shitty if you'd spill the beans to Sam or whoever. You're not an insensitive jerk, Trish. You never have been, you never will be.”

For a minute she seems ready to argue, to make her point crystal clear, but eventually she sighs deeply. “Fucking hell, why do I have to be such a good person?”

She groans at the ceiling as though the universe did her a huge injustice.

Dean trains his attention back to his burger and hopes that's the end of their uncomfortable discussion. He's already way too close to growing lady parts, he seriously doesn't wanna risk it.

Mainly since a part of himself actually _wants_ to talk about Castiel.

About his ugly sweater vests and the reading glasses he sometimes wears (not enough though, in Dean's opinion) and his frown and his smile and his eyes, _good God, his eyes_ …

Yeah, Dean is screwed big time.

No questions asked.

“Our talk isn't over yet,” Trisha pipes up, scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes. “I _will_ learn the truth, just wait and see.”

Dean doesn't doubt it for even a second.

Damn.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Thankfully for the rest of the day Trisha is distracted by actually working the case.

They interview some more people, research the history of the mansion and eventually even catch a glimpse of something that might or might not have been the banshee. Or perhaps just a trick of light.

At least Trisha and Dean wait around for over two hours in the empty house, hoping for the phenomenon, whatever it has been, to return, but it stays quiet and uneventful and at some point both hunters decide to retreat for the night and try their luck tomorrow.

So it's fairly late when Dean returns from a beer run, walks into Trisha's room to give her the items she requested beforehand while fluttering her eyelashes at him, and spots Trisha sitting at the table in front of her ancient laptop, smiling at whatever she's seeing on the screen.

“I got your stuff,” Dean announces. “Even your feminine products, though I seriously have no clue if I grabbed the right brand. I only remembered it starting with a 'B', that's about it.”

But instead of Trisha another voice, coming out of the laptop's loudspeakers, answers teasingly, “Aaaww, he's buying you your lady things? That's _so cute_!”

Dean scowls, recognizing the voice of his annoying brother anywhere.

“Yeah, he's a real gentleman, isn't he?” Trisha agrees with a smirk, looking at the screen in front of her. “And you've got no idea how many men usually make a huge fuss about getting some tampons. Like they seriously think some other people might believe they're buying that stuff for themselves or something. Stupid, fragile masculinity.” She shakes her head, sighing. “But not Dean over there. He's the type of guy who even asks the employees for recommendations.”

She's mainly just frolicking, but there is some earnest fondness in her tone, too, as she's telling the story. She obviously regards him highly for getting her hygiene products without any complaining and Dean can't help wondering with what kind of overcompensating macho guys she normally hangs out with.

The hunter, however, decides to postpone the question after walking around the table and finally seeing himself confronted with his brother's face on the screen, grinning up at him.

“Oh hey, Dean.” Sam actually waves at his brother like a four-year-old and unfortunately it's way too adorable for Dean to make fun of him for that. “I was just chatting with Trisha.”

The hunter casts a glance at her, wondering whether she might have slipped something about Dean's “secret boyfriend”, fishing for information by being extra subtle, but Trisha just rolls her eyes as their gazes meet.

“Yeah?” Dean wonders, looking back at Sam. “Did you tell her embarrassing childhood stories about me?”

Sam snorts. “I don't need to go back to your _childhood_ to do that.”

“Oh, dear brother of mine, I'm not ashamed of the things I did.” Dean smirks. “The stories I could tell _about you_ on the other hand …”

Sam squints his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I get it.”

“I could start with your absolute refusal to wear diapers,” Dean continues, enjoying the not so stifled laugh from Trisha next to him. “You always ripped them off and ran around naked, your teeny-weeny boy parts flipping around –”

“ _Dean_!”

“Mom and Dad had a really hard time with you, I can tell you that.” Dean grins brightly at the sight of his brother starting to fidget uncomfortably. “I was a freaking angel in comparison.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Sam objects, shaking his head. “And how about we talk about the case and postpone those beautiful stories to _never ever_? It's getting late and I don't wanna sit here all night listening to you of all people.”

“Ouch, Sammy, that hurts –”

“Why don't you just screw yourself –?”

“ _Boys_!” Trisha interrupts as she slaps Dean on the shoulder to scold him. “As much as I would love to hear that diaper story, we've got a job to do. And Sam just told me they might have a breakthrough on our case.”

Now Dean's curiosity is piqued.

He feels like they achieved nothing today and he seriously doesn't want to see the next one and the one after that go about the same way. There are so much more pleasurable pastimes than sitting around in an empty house waiting for a monster to show its hideous face.

“What do you got?” he urges right away.

“Well, we dug deeper into the history of the house,” Sam explains, switching right into his _'Hey, so get this'_ -business tone. “The last residents were Charles and Rosa Jester, the local dentist and his wife. They bought the place in 1953. And Rosa died three months later.”

Dean listens up at that. So far there had only been reports of some sighting in the past and, most recently, the testimonies of the construction workers talking about the unbearable screams. This is the first time they heard about a death, though.

“Why wasn't this mentioned anywhere?” Dean grumbles. He remembers reading the names of the Jesters and a brief mention that the wife died, but there had been no indication that it'd been anything else but natural causes, so Dean didn't pay it much mind.

“Well, I guess you can't sell a property for full price if there's a death involved,” Sam says, shrugging his shoulders. “Plus, Rosa's demise wasn't ruled as a murder back then. She suddenly started to speak about a voice and screeches only she was able to hear, she grew anxious and agitated, and eventually she went crazy and smashed her head in. The authorities thought it to be a result of a mental illness. And sadly that was a stigma back then, so it was swept under the carpet. The husband moved out of the house and it's been empty ever since.”

Dean wrinkles his forehead. “So that Rosa chick was killed by our banshee.”

“Well, actually …” Sam's gaze wanders to a place beyond the computer screen. “She was killed by a banshee, we're certain of that. But not exactly by _our_ banshee, so to speak.”

Dean exchanges a confused look with Trisha. “What do you mean?”

“It's a theory, for now,” Sam explains. “But it seems plausible. Cas can explain it better than me.”

And then suddenly Sam stands up and disappears out of the picture, instantly followed by two voices beginning to argue with each other. Dean immediately recognizes Castiel's deep baritone and his heart makes a leap in his chest. By the volume of their voices Castiel obviously has been sitting close by, listening to their conversation, and Dean can't tell how he's feeling about this.

Is he supposed to have _any_ feelings regarding this?

Before he can make up his mind Castiel all of a sudden appears on screen, right there where Sam had been just a moment ago. His icy blue eyes seem to pierce through their internet connection as a pair of big Sasquatch hands on his shoulders are keeping him down, willing him not to bolt the next second.

“It's _your_ theory, Cas,” Sam says. “You can explain it the best.”

Castiel seems to be the opposite of thrilled to give the report in person. He scowls at Sam outside of the picture frame, but his brother merely chuckles and waves the guy off. He probably still thinks this is about the stupid little feud Dean and Castiel had going on before all the shit went down.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel eventually greets him, apparently reluctantly accepting his fate for now. “Ms. Hannigan.”

Trisha tenses next to him and nods tersely at the Man of Letters, her previous cheer dulling down.

And Dean can't help raising his brows at their interaction.

“As Sam mentioned, we looked at the history of the place and found some information,” Castiel offers, going straight to business. “I'm going to mail you all the details later, so you have it in writing as well.”

Dean notices Sam retreating, obviously satisfied that Castiel, now that he started to get into his element, wouldn't just run away and leave Dean and Trisha hanging. He walks around a corner, most likely in the direction of his bedroom, and gives them both a big smile and a quick goodbye wave before vanishing.

Yeah, sometimes Sam's still a four-year-old.

Tall, endearing bastard.

“Rosa Jester was indeed killed by a banshee,” meanwhile, Castiel continues. “I found the report of the hunters and Men of Letters who worked the case. Their description about the events leave no doubt.”

Dean quirks his head. “So hunters were at the scene.”

He isn't necessarily surprised by that. The collaboration between the organization and the hunter community had been a bit rudimentary back then, but it still worked rather well and they were able to cover much more ground than before they decided to work hand in hand. Monster who could've easily been missed before these days due to bad news coverage, eventually found their ends when hunters and Men of Letters joined forces.

“Yes there were hunters in the mansion,” Castiel agrees. “And they were successful in killing the banshee.”

Dean lifts a brow while Trisha lets out a small gasp beside him. “What are you saying? There is _another_ banshee in that fucking house?”

“No.” Castiel leans a bit closer to the screen and Dean can't help noticing that his shirt is unbuttoned at his neck and allows a pretty nice glimpse on his collarbone. “I'm just saying that Rosa Jester died a very violent death.”

Dean blinks a few times, trying to collect his thoughts. “Wait, you mean –?”

Castiel nods, apparently knowing fairly well what the hunter is thinking. “I believe there is no banshee. Not anymore, at least. Just a restless spirit.”

Well, Dean certainly didn't expect that.

“I'm not sure if Rosa Jester is seriously attempting to hurt anyone or if she's still in endless agony, screaming and screaming like the banshee is still in her head,” Castiel says. “It's just a theory for now, but I think it has some solid ground. Rosa might have been stuck in the place of her death ever since, screeching since then, for decades now, or maybe the construction workers woke her up when they started the renovations. But all in all it seems like a plausible theory.”

He's honestly not wrong. It's at least worth checking out.

“Rosa Jester is buried at the local cemetery,” Castiel explains. “I will send you the exact location. My theory might be inaccurate, but I guess it wouldn't hurt to salt and burn her bones anyway, just in case.”

Dean nods in agreement. Sounds like a solid plan to him. Burn the bitch and wait around a day or two to see if there's any new development or if the reports about the screams stop right there. Maybe stay at the mansion for a whole night, with his EMF close by, to make sure for himself.

It sounds at least way better than doing nothing and feeling useless.

“So a salt-and-burn then?” Trisha pipes up, chuckling all of a sudden. “Well, _now_ I sure know why I called you here, Dean. You can dig up that grave and I will take over the fun part.”

Dean feels his muscles relaxing at the banter. “We see about that, Hannigan. Equality and all that crap, remember?”

“Oh honey, I can be very persuasive, as you know.” She freaking winks at him as she nudges his shoulder playfully. “You _will_ dig up that grave all by yourself, I can assure you.”

“I'm happy to hear I was able to help,” Castiel suddenly cuts in, his voice actually so freaking freezing it makes both Dean and Trisha flinch in the process. “Although I seriously don't need to know the specifics about who digs up what.”

And then he falls silent and it gets really uncomfortable really fast.

_Damn_.

Dean can't recall the last time he felt the chills so intensely, but here he is.

He remembers his last conversation with Castiel back at the bunker, how the guy cold-shouldered him like he committed a serious crime. It apparently only got worse from there.

Trisha is obviously experiencing it as well, pulling a face at Castiel's obvious hostility. And she's never been one for dealing with tension very well. “Okay, guys, if that's all.” She smiles at Castiel, totally strained. “Thank you so much for the report, it will be a serious help.”

Well, she's clearly trying desperately to butter Castiel up. At least Dean can't remember the last time she thanked him for anything in such a dramatic fashion (apart from sex, that is).

“It's been an absolute pleasure,” Trisha continues, apparently having watched too many _Downton Abbey_ episodes at some point in the past. “But I'm afraid I have to excuse myself since I'm in serious need of a shower.” And then she turns toward Dean and smirks. “You wanna join me, big guy?”

It's clearly a joke as she winks at the hunter in an almost exaggerating manner, but Castiel hasn't always been the best at understanding human behavior.

His face darkens while watching Dean and Trisha's interaction.

“Then I don't want to keep you,” he says, his voice stone cold. “Good luck with the case.”

And then he abruptly cuts the connection, the screen going black.

Wow.

There is _clearly_ something unspoken going on here.

“Damn, no clue what the dude's problem is,” Trisha complains, shaking her head in disbelief. “He _hates_ me. Always has.”

Dean looks up at her words. “He does?”

She heaves a deep sigh. “I have no idea why. I heard stories about him being so fucking brilliant, an outright genius, and on top of that Eileen always told me he's so nice and kind, so I was kinda looking forward to meet him, y'know? I fancy me some smart and sweet guys once in a while.” She creases her forehead. “But when I met him eventually … damn, he acted like I killed his cat or something. From day one he either glared at me or completely avoided me.”

Dean furrows his brows. He can't recall ever seeing Castiel and Trisha in the same room, interacting (or _not_ interacting) with each other, so he seriously had no idea.

“I don't know.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Obviously I did something to majorly offend him without me noticing.”

Dean simply stares at her.

Can it be …?

All this time?

_Shit_.

Dean grimaces as he watches Trisha's miserable expression. Is that honestly all his fault, bragging about his sexual adventures with her right in Castiel's presence without a second thought?

“But who am I telling that, right?” Trisha scoffs. “I mean, both Sam and Eileen told me vividly how you and Castiel always butt heads and argue about everything because you can't agree on anything and who can blame you considering he's such a fucking asshole, so grumpy and –”

She suddenly halts, her eyes widening as she probably realizes she is repeating the exact same words Dean used at the diner to describe his “secret boyfriend”.

Fuck.

“ _OH. MY. GOD_!” she exclaims, leaping to her feet. “It's _him_ , isn't it? He's the one you're so frigging crazy about!”

“I'm not –”

“ _Really_? You're head over heels for _that guy_?”

“I'm _not_ –”

“You … seriously, _him_? I mean, he's damned hot, I'll give you that, but – _oh my God,_ did you tell him about you and me? About the things we did before you developed your stupid crush?”

“There's no _crush_ –”

“Oh fuck, that's the fucking explanation, isn't it? Why he always treated me like the goddamned Antichrist!” She runs her hands through her hair. “He's been jealous, right? This whole freaking time!” She shuts her eyes, obviously having trouble wrapping her head around this new information. “So you are _seriously_ telling me that?”

Dean would love to tell her no, it's utterly ridiculous. But unfortunately he isn't so sure himself anymore. Castiel's been acting cold and evasive since Trisha's name came up the other day and even the mere idea of them both taking a shower together made him recoil and end their conversation so suddenly it almost gave Dean whiplash.

There are some emotions involved.

Serious ones, so it seems.

And Dean honestly doesn't know how to deal with that.

“Oh my God,” Trisha groans, obviously reading the answer on Dean's face. “So you're saying I've been deprived Castiel's legendary chocolate chip cookies because I was sleeping with _you_?”

Dean glowers at her tone. “Hey, no need to sound so condescending.”

“Eileen told me she almost had an orgasm eating them,” Trisha emphasizes, her eyes gleaming in a way that makes Dean keep his distance a bit. “And I was denied them. For getting in your freaking pants.”

Dean snorts. “I'm sure you had nothing to complain about in the orgasm department –”

“ _Cookies_ , Dean!” she cuts in. “ _COOKIES_! Do you even understand what that means?”

Dean would like to feel offended by that, but damn, he ate those cookies as well and they're seriously worth dying for.

“You have to call Castiel back,” Trisha urges, already grabbing the laptop to open up the Skype connection once more. “He _has_ to know.”

Dean's eyes grow as big as saucers. “ _What_? No, I –”

“Oh dammit, I don't mean you should confess your sappy feelings,” Trisha argues. “You don't do that via phone or video or whatever. But right now the guy thinks we're fucking each others' brains out and that's not fair to him.” Her fingers fly over the buttons like they never belonged anywhere else. “So you're gonna tell him you booked a second room, do you hear me? _I need those cookies_!”

Dean wants to protest, but she's actually kinda terrifying and he's afraid he'd lose a limb doing so. And before he even knows what's happening, the bunker's library appears on the screen again and those stunning blue eyes are looking at him once more.

“Is there something else you forgot to tell me?” Castiel asks, cutting right to the chase. He clearly doesn't sound happy about the interruption.

“Yes, there is actually,” Trisha answers, offering the guy a sweet smile. “Our good friend Dean here needs to get something off his chest. So you two cutie pies talk while I go take a shower. All by myself.”

And with those words she turns around, grumbling underneath her breath about “stupid men”, and vanishes into the bathroom.

Castiel follows her movements, frowning hard as she shuts the door behind her with a loud bang.

“Is everything all right?” Castiel wonders. There is concern in his voice, though at the same time he looks like he's angry at himself for having it there to begin with.

Meanwhile, Dean straightens himself and clears his throat. As much as he hates to admit it, Trisha is right. He seriously should come clean and not let Castiel keep believing that he and Trisha are screwing like bunnies from dusk til dawn.

And granted, perhaps he's reading way too much into Castiel's reaction and there's no jealousy at all (even if Trisha would probably smack his head upside down for even considering that), but it honestly wouldn't hurt to tell the truth. Right?

“Um, everything's fine,” Dean mutters. “I just ... there is something else I forgot to mention. It's about the budget.”

Castiel raises his brow. He obviously didn't expect Dean to say that. “What is it?” he asks warily. “Did you buy something expensive again and now you're trying to convince me it's vital for the case?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Don't act like it happens  _ all the time  _ –”

“Because buying that bazooka was seriously not necessary for killing those vampires –”

“Hey, I blew them right up, didn't I?” Dean scowls at Castiel, but at the same time he starts to relax at their familiar bickering. This is something he knows, something he is used to. A bit normality.

“Yes, you blew them up real good,” Castiel agrees, an edge in his tone. “As well as most of the building.”

Dean scoffs. “It was a abandoned warehouse anyway. No one was crying over that – apart from you, so it seems.”

Castiel clenches his jaw. It's more than apparent that he's not in the mood for arguing. “Dean –”

“And by the way, it's nothing like that this time,” Dean reasons. “It's just ... I booked a second room. For myself. And I figured you would like to know that.” He swallows. “For the budget.”

It's hard to interpret Castiel's expression after that reveal. To a random bystander it would most likely appear like no change is happening at all besides mild surprise, but Dean sees something lighting up in the guy's eyes that makes his heart pound a bit harder in his chest.

“A ... second room?”

Castiel actually sounds a bit disbelieving. Like he can't trust his own ears for what they just heard.

Dean hurries to nod. “Yeah. A second one. For me. And my stuff.”

Boy, Dean can't remember ever acting so awkward before. Even as a teenage virgin he had more game than that.

“I mean, that's okay, right?” he asks, cursing the fact that his voice sounds so fucking hoarse. “For the budget?”

Castiel blinks a few times as though he's slowly waking up from a daze. “Well, of course it's fine,” he eventually answers. “We would have paid for two rooms anyway if Sam wouldn't have ... well, you know.”

Dean falls silent as he watches Castiel attempting to wrap his head around this new development. He obviously has some trouble adjusting to it and Dean can't help feeling something warm spreading in his chest. That's clearly not the reaction of someone who couldn't care less.

“But ... why?” Castiel wonders after a while. “Did you have a fight with Trisha? Or did she reject you?”

He actually seems like the mere thought is absolutely ridiculous to even consider and Dean finds himself smiling faintly.

“No, nothing like that,” Dean says, something akin to hope bubbling inside of him. “Trish and I are great. Besties even.” Apart from the fact that he wants to murder her in her sleep for being so noisy, but that's an entirely different story. “I booked the second room as soon as I left the bunker.”

Castiel's eyes widen slightly for a split second before he schools his features back into something more leveled. “I see,” he says, his voice deeper than ever before. “Well ... I'm sure you have your reasons.”

“I do,” Dean agrees. Almost whispers.

“Although Sam probably will be very disappointed to hear you're not 'letting off some steam'.” Castiel is clearly trying to lighten the mood a bit, but simultaneously fishing for more information regarding Dean's decision.

The corners of the hunter's mouth tug upwards at that. “Well, Sam's gonna be _very_ disappointed, yes. Very, very much so.”

Although it's honestly hard to read, Dean believes to detect Castiel's features lighting up at this certainly blatant confirmation that no sexual contact has been or will be happening at all.

“Well …” Castiel licks his lips. The change in his posture is more than obvious. So tense and edgy before and now all of his muscles seem to relax like they have been cramped this whole time. It's a far cry from just two minutes ago and _DAMN_ , there is no other way to interpret this whole thing, is there?

Castiel was _indeed_ jealous!

God, Dean has seriously no clue how to handle this. Should he say something? Wait until he'll have a chance to talk about this face to face? Or should he deny the entire thing?

Shit, Dean can't recall ever being so riled up before.

“It's quite late, Dean,” Castiel suddenly says, jerking the hunter out of his thoughts. “You should rest. You need your strength if you want to dig up that grave.”

Dean can't help his snort. “Yeah, no matter what Trisha says, she _will_ help.”

Castiel looks at him like he's the most adorable puppy. “You don't seriously believe that, do you?”

Dean grimaces. “I'm so gonna dig this shit up all on my own, won't I?”

Castiel's gaze turn sympathetic as he nods and something in Dean's chest tightens at the sight. “Yes, Dean, you will.”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


And just twenty hours later Dean finds himself at the local cemetery, digging up the grave of Rosa Jester while Trisha stands nearby and eats some chocolate bar, not a fucking care in the world, absolutely happy to leave her partner with all the hard work – just like Dean expected it to go down.

And though it's dirty and cold and exhausting and overall a goddamn bitch, Dean finds himself smiling nonetheless as he thinks about what's waiting for him back home in Lebanon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will our boys finally get there?
> 
> Did Sam ever wear diapers as a toddler?
> 
> Will Trisha eventually get her cookies?
> 
>  
> 
> Find some of the answers in the next chapter :D


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!!  
> I would've loved to give you this chapter sooner, but that damned heatwave was (and still is) seriously melting my brain -.- I'm actually surprised I even managed to create something half decent (at least I think it's readable – my brain probably isn't working properly anymore!!).
> 
> AND I'm giving you the longest chapter of the whole story so far, almost 6.8k words!!! Damn, I have honestly no idea how that happened, I can tell you that O.o Either that heat gave me superpowers without me really noticing or 50% of this is just utter garbage and me repeating myself three thousand times over and over again xDD
> 
> If the latter is the case, please be gentle with me ^^'
> 
> -

It's impossibly late when Dean eventually arrives at the bunker.

After successfully burning Rosa Jester's bones and thankfully not being disturbed by any vengeful spirits or banshees both Dean and Trisha stayed around for another two days just to make sure everything was properly taken care of. After all, Castiel's theory only had been that so far – a theory.

But the longer they lurked around and kept their eyes and ears open the clearer it became that once again the Man of Letters had the best intuition about these sorts of things. No new screeches or appearances were reported and after one final time of swooping the place and taking with them every single gadget they had to identify supernatural presences invisible to the human eye both hunters felt relatively sure that the matter was finally done with the fully demise of Rosa Jester.

Dean felt a bit sorry for the thing to be over with since saying goodbye to Trisha never had been the most fun part of their encounters, but at the same time he couldn't wait to escape her wide and knowing smirks and go back to Lebanon.

“Get me some of those cookies!” Trisha whispered into his ears as they were hugging goodbye. “I mean it, Winchester, you owe me that much!”

“I'll get them for you,” Dean promised before he opened the door of the Impala. “You have my word.”

She blew him one final kiss and climbed into her own car, eager to travel toward new adventures.

And Dean was more than eager to drive back to the bunker.

However, fate decided to fuck with him and soon enough he found himself in the middle of the longest traffic jam in the history of mankind, spending hours and hours on the road, and eventually watching how the sun set behind the horizon, only being able to daydream about Balthazar's amazing cooking, Sam's puppy dog look and, most importantly, Castiel's blue eyes.

In the end it's way past midnight before he arrives in Lebanon.

Finally.

Dean parks the Impala carefully next to all the beautiful classic cars in the garage, grabs his duffle bag and strides towards his bedroom right away, already fantasizing about his beloved memory foam embracing him and taking him to the land of sweet dreams and candy bars.

But then he notices light falling into the hallway from the kitchen and he finds himself frowning. Did just someone forgot to turn it off before heading for bed or is seriously one of the bookworms still awake at this time of night?

Dean huffs as curiosity gets the better of him and he makes a beeline for the kitchen.

And he is instantly confronted with the picture of a disheveled looking Castiel in a comfy shirt and plaid pajama bottoms sitting at the table, all domestic and normal and all kinds of hot while he sips on a cup of something that looks like tea and plays with his phone, his face a mixture of relaxation and concentration.

Dean enters the kitchen before he can think better of it. “Cas?” he wonders, trying to keep his voice low to not startle him too much. “Why are you still up?”

Castiel raises his gaze and his expression softens at the sight of the hunter. “Dean,” he says, like it's the most important word in his vocabulary. “You're late.”

Dean's feet start to move on their own accord once again, leading him closer to Castiel, feeling drawn to him like a moth to the flame. It seems impossible to fight the urge.

“Traffic was a bitch,” Dean explains, shrugging. “What about you? Isn't the bedtime for proper nerds at 9 PM sharp at the very latest?”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but there is a fondness in his features Dean isn't sure has been there before. “I couldn't sleep, so I made myself some tea.”

Dean can't help wondering if this insomnia is just something that happens more often and he never noticed it before or if Castiel is averting the truth here and actually stayed up to wait for Dean's return. The hunter's heart start to jump as he considers the latter option.

“Would you care for some tea as well?” Castiel asks.

Dean has never been a fan of tea and he's honestly beat after being cramped in the car for that long of a time, but Castiel looks so soft and kinda hopeful and Dean's absolutely unable to ignore that.

So in the end he agrees with an easy, “yeah, sure” while shrugging off his jacket, dumping his bag somewhere on the floor and making himself at home. Castiel simply nods once like he received an important mission and goes to work, humming underneath his breath all along the way. He seems so relaxed and comfortable that Dean's stomach begins to churn at the view.

It's not like he's seen Castiel tense and on edge 24/7 before that, but there's is something different about him now. A gentleness in his composure the hunter never really spotted before. And Dean's got no clue whether this is due to their last talk via Skype and the implications during that conversation or whether the dude is just always that chill at 2 AM in the morning, but dammit, Dean would love to see more of that.

Much more.

The tea actually doesn't turn out that bad, somewhat sweet and fruity, and he flashes Castiel a quick smile of gratitude after taking the first few sips. Castiel merely nods at him in acknowledgment before paying attention to his own mug again.

They stay there for a while, sitting at the table, drinking their teas and enjoying the silence.

And yeah, it is kinda nice, Dean has to admit. Usually he grows a bit uncomfortable when it's quiet for too long, but with Castiel it somewhat feels natural. They just need each others' company, nothing else.

Dean can't remember if he ever felt like that with someone else before.

“The case went down just as expected?” Castiel eventually picks up his voice again, eyeing the hunter curiously. So far Dean and Trisha only sent the Men of Letters a notification that they had been indeed dealing with a ghost than a banshee, but apart from that Dean didn't give them much details yet.

“Yeah, just like you said,” Dean agrees easily. “I dug that lady up all on my own – _just like you said_ –, burnt her bones and that's all she wrote.”

Amusement flickers over Castiel's features as he hums in satisfaction at those news.

“Good call on that banshee wannabe, by the way,” Dean adds. “Without you I'd probably still be stuck there and wonder what the hell is going on.”

Castiel assesses him for a moment. “I'm certain you would have figured it out rather soon as well. You're highly brilliant.”

Dean waits for a punchline, for a big, huge BUT coming his way, but Castiel remains silent, obviously content with what he just said, and Dean's barely able to fight back a flush when that realization hits him. Sure, Castiel told him more than once that he's carrying a good head on his shoulders (he probably mentioned it more than any other person in Dean's life, come to think of it), however, it's been mostly followed by snarky remarks or simply an aura of grouchiness given by the specific circumstances which in the end always distracted Dean way too much to let the words really sink in.

But now here they are, out in the open.

And Dean's not exactly sure what to do with them. He's used to people complimenting his looks, but his mind? Yeah, that's new territory.

But it certainly doesn't feel unpleasant.

“Whatever,” he mumbles nonetheless, waving him off and hoping that Castiel doesn't notice the pink tinge on his cheeks. “Went off smoothly, all in all. The spirit didn't show up at the cemetery and give us a hard time or anything.”

Castiel nods like he'd expected as much. “From what I gathered she seriously wasn't a vengeful spirit keen on hurting anyone,” he says. “I think she was still suffering from her violent death. Stuck there in this place, cursed to hear the banshees' screams in her head for all eternity. Until you freed her.”

It sure as hell didn't happen often that Dean had been able to _help_ a frigging ghost instead of killing it, but hey, if that poor woman finally found some peace it's been worth digging up her grave and getting muddy dirt all over himself.

He raises his mug in a toast. “Then let's hope she's happy now, wherever she might be.”

Castiel looks like he's on the verge of saying something, maybe delving into a long monologue about all the different theories about the afterlife waiting for them, and Dean actually wouldn't have minded listening to him falling into nerd mode once more 'cause it's always been kinda cute (though Dean took a long-ass time to admit that), but in the end he just smiles faintly and sips on his tea.

“Trisha requested some cookies, by the way,” Dean suddenly hears himself blurt out, wincing at his own painful change of topic.

Castiel tilts his head. “Cookies?”

Dean rubs the back of his head bashfully, wondering where the fuck his smoothness went. Obviously far far away. “Yeah, your legendary chocolate chip cookies,” he specifies, fidgeting. “She – well, she heard lots of great things about them, but for some reason she's been deprived of them. They were always out when she came around.” He glances at Castiel. “Bad timing, I guess.”

Castiel's face does a lot of things in a very short amount of time, making it absolutely impossible to decipher anything. “Yes, bad timing …” he agrees eventually, his voice heavy.

“So yeah, Trisha'd really love to try some,” Dean says, praying it's not too obvious that his heart is pounding five thousand miles per minute. “If – if you have the time, that is.”

Castiel lowers his gaze. “I think I owe her a whole batch,” he confesses, huffing at himself. “For being a childish ass who –” He halts as he notices Dean watching him closely. “And for successfully closing the case, of course.”

The hunter snorts. “ _I_ closed that case, as well, remember?”

“You'll get some cookies, too,” Castiel promises solemnly.

Dean grins widely and feels his insides squeeze at the sight of some color starting to appear on Castiel's face. “Thanks, man.”

The urge to reach across the table and take Castiel's hand into his is almost impossible to fight back and he begins to wonder whether he should even stop himself doing so. Granted, they haven't outright said anything concrete yet, but damn, the signs are strong and Dean's getting tired of ignoring this, whatever this is …

So should he do it?

Seems easy enough, from Dean's point of view. But at the same time it appears to be the hardest thing he would ever do.

It would mean _so much more_ than two people merely touching each other …

So much more.

“My family wants to meet you, by the way,” Castiel suddenly announces, jerking Dean out of his thoughts.

“Um.” The hunter merely stares at him for a moment. “Your family?”

“Jimmy and Claire,” Castiel clarifies. “They … I told them what you did for me. Well, _not the whole story_ , of course, since they seriously don't need to hear anything about demons and such, but … well, I told them enough to feel very grateful toward you. They want to meet you.”

Dean recalls his one phone call with Jimmy, the softness and concern in his voice, and the utter relief when he realized Dean was at Castiel's side. And he remembers all the things Castiel told him about Claire while love and affection filled his features.

Yeah, maybe meeting them wouldn't be that terrible.

And so he says, “I'd love to,” while reveling at the sight of Castiel's face lighting up at Dean's casual easiness.

“They will be thrilled to hear that,” Castiel says. “Claire is actually pestering to meet you for a while now. Even before all of this mess happened …”

Dean finds himself smirking at this new information. “So you talked about me with her?”

He is instantly reminded of his conversation with Jimmy where the guy claimed something similar. Obviously Castiel had spoken about him to his family for a while now, so it seems.

Castiel, meanwhile, looks taken aback for a moment, apparently not having intended to reveal these news, before he sits up straight and schools his expression into something almost serious. “Well, I had to vent to _someone_ about you, more than once. And Claire got rather soon curious about the man who was riling me up so much.”

Well, it's certainly not a lie, that's for sure. Not the entire truth, but still, Dean takes it.

“Damn, I don't even wanna know what stories you told her,” Dean says, chuckling at the image of Castiel ranting on his phone about that one stupid hunter to his teenage niece. “Not a lot of them are PG rated.”

Castiel huffs. “Sometimes it honestly wasn't easy making Disney versions out of your shenanigans.”

Dean grins broadly at that. “Can't wait to hear them.”

And he seriously can't. Meeting Castiel's family is a big step in their relationship. Taking him actually with him instead of randomly meeting them in the bunker, _introducing_ him to them …

Yeah, that's not something you do every day.

He feels excitement and fear bubbling inside of him at the prospect as he keeps on sipping on his tea, not sure if he's able to trust his voice right now. If it would give all his feelings away.

So he stays quiet and once again Castiel seems more than happy to indulge him, just raising his mug to his lips – _his unfairly distracting lips_ – and staring at Dean with that intense gaze that always makes the hunter shiver in a way he never knew before.

Dean probably could've spent _hours_ just sitting here, locking his eyes with Castiel and forgetting the world all around them.

Unfortunately, however, the long time spent on the road eventually takes his toll and he finds himself stifling a yawn before he can suppress it.

“You should go to bed,” Castiel says instantly, apparently still eager after those weeks since the hospital to see Dean rested and catch enough hours of sleep. “I'm sure you missed your memory foam.”

Dean grins at the reminder. Castiel certainly knows him well. “Yeah, I did. Motel beds seriously aren't the best, especially after digging up some graves.”

Castiel nods in understanding. “And we all know you are a very delicate man.”

“ _Hey_!”

“It's one of your many charms.”

Dean mock glares at him while amusement fills his whole being and for a split second he considers to invite Castiel to try the memory foam for himself, right here, right now, but soon enough he blushes at his own idea and feels his mouth becoming dry.

Damn.

Sure, they “cuddled” before, but it's been a special occasion back then. He can't just drag the guy into his bedroom like that, right?

Right?

“You certainly will need all your strength for the upcoming days,” Castiel suddenly says. “So a good night's rest doesn't sound so bad, does it?”

For a moment Dean's brain has some trouble coming back online, but eventually he finds himself frowning in confusion at those words. Why would he phrase it like that? “What do you mean?”

Castiel blinks a few times, obviously bewildered why Dean would even ask such a question, before he eventually clears his throat awkwardly. “So I guess nobody informed you that your mother is here?”

Dean's eyes widen. “My _mom_ is _here_?”

Ah damn.

Sure, he loves his mother, no doubt, but the last times they spoke with each other it revolved around Crowley and Dean's recklessness and a lot of other topics the hunter hadn't been to keen to talk about. So yeah, he doesn't look forward to be confronted with that face to face, without any chance of making up a bogus excuse and just turn off the phone.

Technology honestly has its advantages.

“She arrived yesterday morning,” Castiel explains. “She visited your grandfather and decided to drop by after that. I figured someone would have told you.”

The unspoken _“Otherwise I would have”_ is clear as day and Dean really appreciates that Castiel would've given him a warning in advance.

Since apparently no one else bothered to do that.

He groans and rubs his temples. “Shit. I assume everyone knows about the demon deal now?”

Castiel merely shrugs. “I'm not sure.”

Dean already feels a headache coming his way. This is _not_ the way how he imagined his return to the bunker to be.

Not at all.

His family honestly has terrible timing, there's no denying that.

“Don't worry, Dean,” Castiel says, a chuckle in his tone as he lays his hand on Dean's shoulder in a soothing manner. “She won't stay mad at you for long as soon as she's confronted with your big, beautiful eyes. Even _I_ am unable to do that and sometimes you're _really_ aggravating me.”

Dean's on the verge of arguing because that seriously not fair, but then Castiel's words sink in and he actually starts to goddamned blush, the phrase _big, beautiful eyes_ repeating over and over in his mind.

“And if it might get too much, you can always come to me,” Castiel proposes with a smirk. “I know every single escape route and hidden room in this building. I'm capable of making you disappear for as long as you like.”

Dean's brain is still malfunctioning and he's only able to stare at the man in front of him, probably looking like a complete moron in the process.

Castiel, however, seems perfectly unperturbed as he squeezes Dean's shoulder and whispers, “Good night.”

And then he's gone, leaving Dean only with his empty mug and thousand different emotions running crazy through his head like a stampede in the wilderness.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


“A _demon deal_?”

Dean almost drops his coffee mug as the booming voice of his brother attacks him first thing in the morning and before he even knows it a giant Sasquatch suddenly appears right in front of him, his face all red and blotchy.

Dean winces. “Damn, Mom didn't wait around, huh?”

He turns his back to Sam and strides toward the kitchen table, totally ignoring the heavy footsteps following him.

“What the hell were you even thinking?” Sam growls. “This was so stupid and reckless –”

“Jeez, Sammy, I didn't sell my soul or anything,” Dean objects, rolling his eyes. “I'm fine, everyone's fine. Considering that I made Crowley promise not to hurt anyone I actually did us all a favor by –”

“Oh please,” Sam cuts in, scoffing. “Demons can twist everything. Don't think for even a second that that guy won't use this to his advantage somehow.”

Dean scoffs. “Believe me, that guy is way too concerned about his precious souls and he's using every option possible to get them back. He has no reason to –”

“Demons don't need _reasons_!” Sam interrupts harshly. “They betray you and rip your heart out and drag your soul to hell –”

“Like I said, _I didn't sell my soul_!” Dean grinds his teeth audibly. He seriously doesn't need his baby brother to attack him like that first thing in the morning. “I will be fine, trust me!”

“And what is Cas thinking about all of this?” Sam demands to know. “I bet he's not happy with you getting all audacious _again_ –”

“Well, Cas sure is happy that he's not in a fucking coma anymore,” Dean grits out, clenching his jaw. “So why don't you just shut up? I'm freaking tired of apologizing for saving the guy's life –”

“Of course we're all glad that Cas is okay,” Sam concedes immediately. “But we're also worried about you, you dumbass! What if you would've gotten hurt or even killed? You think anyone would be happy about that?”

“Sammy –”

“Don't _'Sammy'_ me!” he warns, raising his hand. “If I would've pulled such a stupid stunt, you'd kick my ass to next Sunday. So don't you dare to tell me I'm overreacting because I'm seriously –”

“ _Sam_!” suddenly another voice rises, cutting through the tense air like a knife.

Sam flinches and stops his accusations straightaway and throws a look over his shoulder at their mother standing in the doorway.

“You should keep it down,” Mary orders, stepping inside the kitchen. “Dean didn't even have breakfast yet. Can't you wait before you rip his head off?”

“But, Mom –”

“We talked about this yesterday,” she reminds her son. “We can't change what happened. And it's your father's and my job to rip your brother a new one, not yours. So go back to your room and keep on flirting with that cute Eileen girl.”

Instantly Sam starts to flush at his mother's indication. “I wasn't – we weren't …” He clears his throat awkwardly. “We were just talking …”

Mary snorts. “That's what kids nowadays call it? In my generation we called it Big Time Flirting, with capital letters and everything.”

Sam seems torn for a moment, obviously eager to continue to yell at Dean, but not at all keen on having his mother teasing him for his very apparent crush, so in the end he grouchily mumbles something and retreats hastily.

Dean watches him leave with an amused smile before his attention shifts toward his mother who shuffles into the kitchen like on any other day and fills herself a cup of coffee. It's been a while since Dean saw her in person and despite the circumstances warmth fills his chest as he looks at her.

“You want some pancakes, honey?” Mary asks after taking a few sips of her coffee. “I haven't made some for you _in ages_.”

Dean's lips curl upwards. “And there's a reason for that, Mom. Your pancakes are shit.”

Mary pouts at him, but she doesn't seem necessarily offended. She knows perfectly well that she passed her poor cooking skills on to Sam.

“Well, look at my adult son bad-mouthing at me.” She shakes her head in mock disappointment. “Where did I go wrong as a mother?”

“It's called _honesty_ ,” Dean counters. “And _you_ are the one who taught me that.”

Mary groans. “God, I'm such a useless mother.”

In the end it's Dean who makes some pancakes because he seriously wouldn't look forward to some food poisoning on top of anything else. He finds himself getting lost in the task, throwing all the ingredients together and firing up the pan, while ignoring his mother boring her eyes into his back, watching every single movement like a hawk.

Like she doesn't want to let him out of her sight.

Dean finds himself sighing inwardly, figuring that he won't avoid having some good old family talk.

“Why did you stop Sam?” Dean finally asks the question that is burning on his tongue since his brother left the kitchen. He drops a plate with deliciously smelling pancakes in front of Mary, enjoying the sight of her eyes lighting up, and digs into his own pile as well. “I thought you'd enjoy another person yelling at me.”

Mary sighs. “You made a mistake. A stupid, stupid mistake.” She leans a bit closer. “But I do understand why you did it. It feels kinda wrong blaming you for saving someone's life, you know? Granted, Cas obviously never was in any real danger, but still, we didn't know at the time. _You_ didn't know.” Her eyes turn sympathetic. “I mean, it's still the dumbest thing you've ever done, but I seriously hope you learned your lesson.”

Dean snorts. He learned his lesson alright, that's for sure. Never leave Castiel – or anyone, really – alone in a potentially dangerous situation. This whole mess could have been avoided right from the start if he'd just forced Castiel to go the fuck home.

Instead he let himself wrap around Castiel's finger by a set of intense blue eyes and a stubbornness matching his own.

“I've just read your latest reports,” Mary suddenly picks up her voice again, apparently eager to change the topic. For now, at least. “It seems like you've been on a hunt with Trisha?”

Dean nods in confirmation, welcoming the chance to talk about basically anything else. “Yeah, an alleged banshee case that turned into a simple restless spirit in the end. Kinda boring, to be honest.”

Mary tips her head to one side, assessing him from top to bottom. “Though it's always nice to see Trisha, no matter the excitement or lack of excitement on the case, right?” The corner of her lips curl upwards. “She's really a lovely girl. I wish she'd hang around more often, she's always a joy to be around.”

Dean narrows his eyes at her, wondering if she might know something more about her son's relationship with that woman than Dean let her believe all these years. At least there's something odd swinging in her tone which makes the hunter hesitate.

“Yeah, she is fun …” Dean answers carefully, cautious not to give away too much. Or anything at all.

Mary simply hums in agreement. “It'd be nice to see her more often. Maybe have my handsome son take her with him on his next visit. It sure as hell would save a lot of gas.”

Dean starts to grimace as he watches a knowing smirk form on Mary's lips. There are obviously no secrets here.

_Damn_.

“Did Sam tell you?”

That sounds exactly like his freakishly tall brother, talking about stuff that's none of his damned business. Well, okay, granted, Dean bragged about his adventures with Trisha to him on a regular basis in great detail, but _still_ , you just know that you don't pass such stories on _to your fucking parents of all people_!

That's like rule number one.

“Oh no, honey,” Mary, however, counters. “Sam didn't have to say anything. I _know_.”

Great.

Admittedly, considering she's one of the finest hunters on the freaking planet and can read people like newspapers, she probably took one look at Dean to figure it out. It doesn't make the situation any better though.

The hunter starts to fidget uncomfortably. “Please don't tell me you're expecting some grandchildren sometime soon or whatever. Because Trish and I, we're not _that_ –”

He pulls a face as he pictures his mother already flirting with some china patterns while mooning to her lady friends about that “nice young girl” his son is seeing. She's always been highly curious about her kids' love lives (or lack thereof) and Dean can't imagine this being any different with Trisha now.

But Mary simply waves him off. “Please, honey, I know _exactly_ what kind of relationship you have with Trisha. And it's honestly not the let's-get-married-and-have-a-bunch-of-babies kind, am I right?”

Dean chews his bottom lip. How are you supposed to respond to that? “Um …”

“Don't be shy, love,” Mary says, smiling. “It's totally normal. And Trisha is hot, so I get why you enjoy sleeping with her.”

Dean feels a blush coming his way. “ _Mom_.”

“What?” She shrugs as if it's not a big deal. “It's not like I haven't done sex-without-attachment before as well, way before I met your father.”

Dean winces. Okay, that's _definitely_ something he doesn't want to hear.

Unfortunately his mother doesn't get the message (or, more likely, ignores it completely). “I remember Tony quite vividly. He's been one of the most passionate men I've ever met and the way he ripped the clothes off my body –”

“ _OH GOD, MOM_!” Dean interrupts harshly, raising his arm like he's protecting himself from any more words coming out of her mouth. “Are you really that keen on traumatizing me?”

Mary chuckles. “I'm just saying there's nothing to be ashamed of. You and Trisha are attracted to each other and you do something productive about it.” She grins lopsidedly. “It's a great way to burn off some calories.”

Dean rolls his eyes. He honestly didn't come back here to listen to awkward horror stories. “Can we talk about something else? _Please_?”

He actually would even prefer for Mary to yell at him some more because of his deal with Crowley again. It seriously would have been less painful than this fucking conversation.

_Much_ less painful.

“Is it seriously such a crime to have an interest in my sons' lives?” Mary wonders.

“Of course not. But there are things you talk about with your mother – and then there are things you _don't_ talk about.”

“I don't need to know the details –”

“And I didn't sleep with Trisha this time anyway, so there's nothing to talk about,” Dean blurts out before he's able to berate himself and immediately regrets it because he seriously didn't mean to give that away as well. It would only lead to very awkward questions Dean isn't really ready to answer yet.

However, Mary doesn't appear overly surprised by her son's revelation. “I know, Dean,” she says softly. “I read the report, remember?”

Right.

The report where Dean booking a second motel room for himself is most likely recorded, too. Since the Men of Letters keep track of freaking everything, that is.

Damn nerds.

He's just glad Sam apparently hasn't read the fucking thing yet since he'd bombard his brother with countless questions (next to the yelling because of the demon deal, of course), pestering him to no end, and Dean can really wait for that to happen. For a long time to come.

Forever, if necessary.

Though, when he looks at his mother who leans closer toward him, her expression intrigued, he realizes that he won't be able to avoid that for very long.

Seconds, at the most.

“The most pressing question now is,” Mary begins, her eyes glinting, “why is that? Why didn't you sleep with Trisha?”

Dean grimaces at the tone in her voice. God, how much he prays for an apocalypse to happen right about now. “You really expect me to talk about _sex_ with my _mother_?”

“No,” Mary objects, grinning. “I expect you to talk about the _lack_ of sex with your mother!”

If that's any better.

“Mom, I don't ...” He sighs deeply, rubbing his temple to fight back an upcoming headache. “Can't you just yell at me 'cause of the demon deal some more? Call me reckless or whatever?”

He expected – and honestly kinda hoped – that the reminder would set his mother back into action right away and let her forget all about Trisha and the non-sex, but instead she turns pensive while studying her son in a way that makes Dean all fidgety.

“I have the feeling those two things are connected,” she eventually concludes. Her face is incredibly hard to read and Dean has honestly no clue how to deal with that.

He just knows this is getting close to dangerous territory.

“I've got no clue what you're talking about,” Dean says, though the suspicions inside of him are rising and starting to make him skirmish.

“The demon deal. You _not_ having sex with Trisha.” Mary scrutinizes Dean thoughtfully. “There might be a common factor here, am I right?”

Dean ducks his head and prays to every entity listening in that the ground might open up and swallow him since that sounds way more fun than having _that_ freaking talk with his mother of all people.

“I've no idea what you think you might know, but –”

“How about you cut that crap?” Mary interrupts, her eyes narrowed. “You're lying to me, you're lying to yourself and I think it's time for that to stop, don't you agree?”

Dean blinks, not sure how to respond. _If_ she even expects an answer.

“I'm not as blind as your brother and father seem to be,” Mary states. “I always knew there was something, you know? Something more beside the insults and hostility. For a long time I figured it's simple sexual tension you were happy to ignore since any involvement would have complicated your already intense relationship. And I could easily understand that, that's why I never said a thing. Hell, you don't need to make your life hard if you can keep your dick in your pants, right?”

Dean winces at her phrasing. Does she _really_ have to be so blunt about the whole thing?

“But then he fell into that coma and I realized I was wrong,” Mary continues. “Christian told me you didn't sleep for days. You wouldn't leave his side. You got almost crazy with worry. And in the end you even bargained with a demon.”

Dean chews his bottom lip. He would love to argue with her, dissolve her statements, but he doesn't trust his voice not to break at some point. He feels like he kept all of things way too long inside of him and _damn_ , he can't just outright lie to his mom!

He just can't.

“And now Trisha,” Mary adds. “ _He_ is the reason, isn't he? He is the common factor to all of this.”

Dean averts his gaze, unable to look her in the eyes anymore.

“Dean, honey.” She takes his hand and squeezes it, her thumb rubbing gently over his skin. “Remember what I said to you not that long ago? Your happiness is the most important thing to me. You just need to be honest with yourself.”

Dean sure as hell recalls that conversation. Back at the diner, when everything was still alright. When his biggest concern had been meeting the King of the goddamned Crossroads the night before. When he cursed Castiel's stubbornness since that idiot wouldn't agree on leaving town and yet contemplated whether he just should bring one muffin or a whole bunch for the guy to their motel room.

“Tell him how you feel,” Mary encourages him. “We both know life can be short. You don't want to waste an opportunity like this, do you?”

She's got a point there, he knows that, but it still feels painful hearing it. “Mom –”

“Just do it!” Mary waves her hands like she actually expects him to leap to his feet right away and run off to confess his undying love for Castiel before he even had lunch. “You'll regret it otherwise.”

Dean chews his bottom lip. “But I don't think –”

“Oh, Dean Winchester, don't tell me you're not good enough for the boy!” Mary scolds him immediately. “You're kind and caring and one of the best men I know – and I'm not saying that because I'm your mother but because it's a fact! Everyone would be lucky to have you.”

Dean wants to argue with her on that, but he knows right from the start it'd be a futile endeavor and he seriously needs the energy right now.

“Mom …” Dean sighs deeply as he considers for a moment to deny the whole thing and make some kind of hasty (and pathetic) exit. He hasn't admitted to anything yet, therefor there is still a window of opportunity open for him to lie through his teeth and downplay the mess. He's still got the chance.

But like the night before when he almost grasped Castiel's hand, so fucking tired of dancing around of each other and not doing _something_ , Dean just can't stand it anymore.

So instead of making some shitty excuse he addresses the one thing that is lying heavy on his chest for quite a while now. “I'm not good with relationships, Mom. I'm really, really not.”

Mary looks surprised at those words. Whatever she anticipated – denial, silence, anger, tears, a freaking love confession –, this wasn't it.

“And Cas is not just a hook up or whatever,” Dean continues, his voice low, yet powerful as he finds himself _finally_ speaking about the things he didn't dare to even think about not that long ago. “He needs someone who's good at this stuff, y'know? He _deserves_ that. And I'm … I think I'm scared that …”

_That I'm gonna mess it up. That I'm gonna hurt him, break his heart._

Castiel deserves better than that.

“Oh, Dean …”

“I'm scared, okay?” Dean admits, shutting his eyes for a second. “When I'm with him I tend to forget all that crap, but when I'm alone, picturing all that might be … I can't stop thinking about that. All my relationships – if you even wanna call them that – failed and I don't see …”

He trails off as he runs his fingers through his hair and wonders when the hell these thoughts even started to enter his mind. Sure, he's known for a while that something held him back to pursue anything more although he got some very clear signals from Castiel that it would be reciprocated, but he never really dared to look closer into it. He blamed his pride or repressed feelings or sometimes even a childhood trauma that in reality never even occurred, just to not have to analyze it.

But here now, with his mother looking at him like that, he feels all of this spilling out without him even exactly realizing it had been there to begin with.

“Every single romantic relationship fails at some point – until one day there is one that doesn't.” Mary's voice is so freaking gentle as she grabs his arm and squeezes it tightly. “When you're with the right person, everything just fits together. It _works_. Don't compare what you have with Cas with anything that happened in your past. It's not even in the same universe.”

“But –”

“And what do you mean, you never had a successful relationship?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Your whole life is filled with wonderful and fulfilling relationships. Me, your father, Sam, Bobby, Jo, Ellen … Love exists in all shapes and forms and we're all crazy about you. So don't ever think you're not relationship material because your whole frigging life is proof of the opposite.”

Dean feels his throat clogging up and he just stares at her, unable to use his voice.

“So just stop making excuses and take the opportunity,” Mary orders, a soft smile on her lips. “Just grab Cas and kiss him senseless. Or let yourself be kissed senseless.”

Dean blushes at the image, but at the same time he feels something spark inside of him.

Maybe he can seriously do that.

Maybe he can be happy for a change.

He finds himself smiling as he pictures all the stuff normal people do in such a situation. Asking the person of their affection out on a date, showing up at their doorstep all dapper, taking them out to a dinner and movie, getting a goodnight kiss at the front porch, exchanging numbers for a second (and third and fourth and countless more) date, eventually changing their relationship status on _facebook_ , for all the world to see …

It sounds cheesy and cliché and Dean kinda wants it for himself.

Damn, what the hell has Castiel done to him?

“Jeez, I'm going crazy, right?” he groans. “I mean, this is _Cas_ we're talking about! He's driving me nuts for years! And now all I wanna do is, I dunno, take him out on dates and stuff and be with him all the time and –”

He stops abruptly as he suddenly notices his mother's eyes widening in shock, her gaze fixed on a point right behind Dean. Just where the door is.

Dean freezes immediately.

Oh no.

Shit shit _shit_.

This can't be true, right?

But as he turns around, slower than slow-motion, he spots another person at the threshold straightaway. Someone with disheveled hair, piercing blue eyes and the ugliest sweater vest Dean has ever seen.

And he looks right at the hunter.

“Hello, Dean.”

DAMN.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go on, scream, yell and shout at me ;D
> 
> Threats to throw some stuff at me is welcomed, too!!
> 
> As someone aspiring the position of “Queen of Cliffhangers” the outrage of my readers is far more enjoyable that any applause could ever be xDD
> 
> Just go for it, I wanna thrive on your frustration and misery!
> 
>  
> 
> (And since my sister inspired me to do that: If you wanna yell at me super badly, but English isn't your strong suit, you're more than welcome to scream at me in German as well ;D)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, without further ado, I give you the next chapter :D
> 
> I know I left the last one on a bad cliffhanger and honestly … I'm seriously not sure you're gonna like me any more after reading this one *lol*
> 
> However, I truly enjoyed all your screams of frustrations in so many languages and I hope this chapter will get a similar reaction from you!!
> 
> Have fun ... or not ^^'
> 
> _

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean's stomach drops so hard even his feet feel it.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

Why the fuck does everything have to go wrong?

He stares at Castiel, waiting for the inevitable, waiting for those blue eyes to lock with his, capture him, captivate him, render him speechless. Waits for a soft smile or denial or even a scoff.

Just _something_.

But Castiel merely blinks, adds a, “Good morning, Mary,” and shuffles into the kitchen like on any other day. Dean follows every single movement, tries to read his expression, however, the guy makes a beeline for the coffeemaker, pours himself a cup and devours it in one single go.

Like a man starving for caffeine.

Dean stares at his bleary eyes and the yawn escaping his lips and recalls the undeniable fact that Castiel is barely conscious in the mornings until enough coffee enters his system to wake him up. And considering that he went late to bed last night it's more than reasonable to assume that he just woke up, exactly like Dean.

And that he has no idea what is going on around him.

At least he's not acting like someone who overheard a semi love confession. On the contrary, within second he's on his second cup of coffee and he seems like there is nothing more important than that. He doesn't even appear to notice that the kitchen fell silent with his arrival.

He just drinks and drinks and ignores every single thing apart from the hot beverage in his hands.

And Dean merely watches him the whole time, his brain overloading with trying to interpret even the tiniest muscle twitch, wondering what to make of the scene unfolding in front of him. Did Castiel honestly didn't hear anything? Or is he just in desperate need of so much caffeine _because_ he wouldn't be able to face the situation without it? Is he keeping it calm and collected, just like he always does? Taking his time, searching for the right words in his head, waging his options?

Is he preparing?

Dean can't say and it's driving him _fucking nuts_. His skin feels like it's on fire, burning through to his bones, and he doesn't even know whether he wants to run, to scream or to just grab the guy and kiss his stupid coffee lips until they would be both unable to even remember their names.

He notices Mary from the corner of his eyes glancing back and forth between them, obviously kinda sheepish for being the reason Dean voiced his feelings in such a vocal way in the first place, but also apparently intrigued what might happen next. She's obviously as incapable to predict Castiel's next step as Dean and that both relieves Dean and makes the whole thing much worse.

Why can't some things be clear for a change?

Without all the wondering and second guessing and going downright crazy?

“Dean, I wanted to ask you a question,” Castiel suddenly pipes up, breaking the silence and making Dean jerk so hard that the table starts to shake.

Castiel lifts his brow at Dean's strong reaction, but doesn't say anything.

Meanwhile, the hunter takes a deep breath and licks his lips. “Um … what is it?”

Is this happening now?

Will Castiel address the issue, with Mary sitting right beside them?

Or will he try (and probably fail) to be subtle and somehow get to talk to Dean alone, away from any prying eyes?

Or will he …?

“I need to pick up some documents from a Man of Letters who lives about an hour away from here,” Castiel says. “And I was wondering if you would like to accompany me.”

Well, okay …

That's not exactly what Dean expected to hear.

He stares at Castiel, his steady expression revealing nothing but a slight interest in what is Dean about to answer to his question, and Dean realizes that the guy seriously has no clue that just a few minutes ago the hunter basically spilled all his dumb feelings out in the open.

Castiel isn't that good of an actor.

And Dean seriously has no idea whether he should feel relieved or disappointed by it. Perhaps both? Because yeah, he really would have hated having his mother by his side witnessing the whole scene, but at the same time it would've been finally out in freedom and Dean wouldn't have had to fumble for the right words anymore, analyzing every glance and touch and word like a man going mad.

It would have _finally_ led to something, whatever that might have been.

But no, here they are, talking past each other. When the hell did all of this get so fucking complicated?

“Dean?” Castiel prompts, looking at him intensely, and Dean realizes that he obviously had been silent for too long. Even Mary assesses him worriedly.

So what was Castiel's question again? Something about documents, right?

“Um … accompany you?” Dean tries to remember what's going on outside of his head.

“You recall Jenkins?” Castiel asks, stepping a bit closer. “He retired and bought a house about an hour from here. He still got some documents and a few of them could be important for my research on Medieval witchcraft. But since Jenkins is rather paranoid and doesn't trust technology enough to simply send me some pictures, I obviously have to drive all the way over to him.”

Yeah, Dean remembers that old grump quite vividly and that sounds exactly like the kind of thing he'd do.

“And I was wondering whether you wanted to come along,” Castiel offers. “A little road trip, of sorts.”

Dean finds himself smiling softly at that while his heart soars at the fact that Castiel thought of including him in his plans, as nerdy as the reason for all this might be.

That he's more than willing to take Dean with him. Just the two of them, in the car. All alone. Maybe even stopping at a dinner along the way (Dean knows about an awesome place near Jenkins' house) and eating some tasty pie.

A little bit like a date.

Kinda.

Still accompanied by official Men of Letters work, but still …

Dean's on the verge of nodding his approval because _hell yeah_ , who the fuck would say no to some alone time with Castiel, there is so much potential, so much chance for something _more_ than just two colleagues picking up some work stuff, and maybe it will turn out all okay in the end, even if Castiel didn't overhear his kinda love confession before …

– but then _finally_ the whole thing sinks in and Dean's entire body stiffens suddenly, feeling like someone dumped ice cold water over his head without any sort of warning.

“You wanna _leave_ the _bunker_?” he exclaims, leaping to his feet immediately. “Are you _out of your goddamned mind_?”

Castiel rolls his eyes and it's more than crystal clear that he didn't expect any other reaction. “Dean –”

“You wanna make yourself a fucking target, Cas?” Dean scoffs. “ _What the hell_?”

“You're seriously over-”

“You might have forgotten, but _Finley_ is still out there!” Dean hisses, pointing an accusing finger in a random direction like Finley is standing _right there_ , shooting them a mocking smile. “The last time you met her you were in a coma for a freaking week! You wanna see a repeat performance after leaving this _highly warded_ and _super protected_ bunker behind to get some paperwork?” Dean shakes his head vigorously. “Over my dead body, man! I almost risked too much waking you up last time and I won't do it again!”

It's a lie and they both know it, but Dean can't help voicing it anyway.

“Ask someone else to get these papers,” he insists. “Balthazar would be more than happy, I'm sure.”

Castiel scoffs at that. “Jenkins would punch Balthazar right in the face.”

Okay, granted, Dean wouldn't blame him for that.

He really, really wouldn't.

“Then send _someone else_!” the hunter urges. “It's dangerous out there for you and I don't –”

“ _Dean_!” Castiel cuts in, his voice cutting, yet so calm that a shiver runs down Dean's spine. “I'm not here to ask for your permission. I _will_ take this trip and no one, not even you, is gonna be able to talk me out of this. So deal with it!”

Dean scowls at him as he folds his arms across his chest and shakes his head in disbelief. “You can't seriously think –”

“I do, Dean!” Castiel interrupts him once more. “What do you think is about to happen? That Finley is just waiting outside for me to show my face? That she'll jump me and drag me to her secret lair where nobody would be able to find me? Is it _that_ what is going on in your head?”

“Cas –”

“I knew you would act unreasonable.” Castiel sighs heavily. “Finley took me by surprise the first time. That won't happen again.”

Dean bites his bottom lip. He knows that Castiel can take care of himself and that he's not prone to make the same mistake twice. _And_ Dean is more than aware that running into Finley at a random little road trip is highly unlikely, especially with both Men of Letters and hunters being on high alert for weeks now, securing the areas around every headquarter they have in this freaking country (and even abroad) and making sure that everyone is following a strict safety protocol.

Dean, for instance, is wearing more talismans for detecting magic and protection against mind control and whatnot around his neck than ever before in his life, making him look like Mr. T, and he knows that countless other hunters are taking such precautions as well.

They're all as careful as they can be, including Castiel.

And yet, Dean can't shake the picture of Castiel lying in that hospital bed, with tubes sticking in his body, and doctors left and right carrying that heavy expression of impending doom with them all the time.

It's too much.

“I'm not Finley's primary target anymore,” Castiel says, his tone leveled. “She didn't manage to crack me the first time and by now she has sampled more than enough information about the Men of Letters to know that she's got other options. It wouldn't make sense for her to waste her time with me _even if_ we should by chance stumble upon her.”

He sounds so certain, so imperturbable, and Dean honestly wants to believe him.

“How can you be so sure about that, huh?” He rubs his temples in an effort to fight back a growing headache. “Maybe she wants some payback, maybe she wants revenge –”

“I know she doesn't,” Castiel objects. “When she tried to enter my mind I saw a glimpse of hers as well. It's inevitable, especially if you're new to the whole mind reading business. Finley obviously didn't use it very often before, perhaps it was even her first time.” He tilts his head to one side, his eyes flickering between Dean and Mary back and forth. “She is a rational person. She has no time for ridiculous vendettas.”

Dean's stomach begins to churn at those words. He doesn't like the fact that Castiel seems to know her so well, inside out.

“Besides, she is a woman,” Castiel adds.

Dean frowns. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Women don't waste their time on stupid and unnecessary revenge plots,” Castiel argues like this should've been obvious right from the start. “They have better things to do.”

Well, Dean can't exactly contradict him on that one, especially with his mother nodding along in confirmation, but still … he wants to put up a fight. He wants Castiel to stay, where it's safe. Where there is no potential danger lurking around every other corner.

And Castiel seems to see right through him, like so many countless times before. “I've been in the bunker _for weeks_ , Dean. Do you have any idea what this is doing to my psyche? Being trapped underground, no windows, no real light. I'm starting to go a bit crazy here.”

Dean's chest suddenly feels too tight. He knows the feeling Castiel is describing here, considering he got cabin fever after just a short time and ran off right away to the next hunt when it eventually got too much.

But Castiel had been here all this time, not even leaving for a quick grocery run or something. Just surrounded by the same walls every single day.

At some point even your beloved library would turn into a prison that way.

“I'm not asking for your fucking permission!” Castiel repeats his statement, even having the audacity to add a swear in for good measure. “I just thought you would like to come along. But if you're so keen on making a scene, maybe I shouldn't bother.”

Dean's whole body tenses much more. Even worse than seeing Castiel out there is seeing him out there _all alone_.

Dean seriously can't let him go by himself, he'd drive himself crazy within minutes!

“So there is no discussion here!” Castiel decides, his glare fierce. “The day after tomorrow I will get in my car, open the windows, enjoy the fresh air and drive all the way to Jenkins. And there we are going to sit in his garden for hours while he rambles about his spoiled grandchildren and I will enjoy every second of it!”

These are obviously his final words as he turns on his heels the next second and marches toward the door, eager on leaving the hunter behind.

And Dean … he can't let it stay like that.

Yes, he doesn't like the fact that Castiel wants to put himself in danger, but at the same time he presented a convincing case here and Dean honestly doesn't have the authority to keep him in the bunker, safe and sound, against his will. It wouldn't be fair.

So he sighs, so deeply that his ribcage almost bursts in half, and states, “We are _not_ taking your crappy car!”

Castiel freezes on the spot right underneath the threshold and sends a skeptical look in Dean's direction. “What?”

“Your car,” Dean clarifies. “It's shit, Cas. I don't wanna be seen in that monstrosity.”

Castiel still hesitates for a moment, apparently not really sure how to react, before he eventually settle on a scoff. “It's not _crappy_.”

“Oh, it is.” Dean pulls a face at the mere thought. “It's a _golden pimp mobile_. I don't even know where you got that abomination in the first place.”

Color starts to show on Castiel's cheek in behalf of his car. “It was a gift –”

“A _crappy_ gift,” Dean cuts in. “We're taking the Impala. Just tell me when and where and I'm gonna be there.”

For a moment Castiel simply studies him, probably not fully trusting Dean's change of heart, and Dean feels a bit like he's been put under a microscope and assessed from every single angle possible. A shiver runs through his body and he tries his best to hide it somehow.

“The day after tomorrow, 10 AM in the garage,” Castiel eventually announces. “Don't be late or I'm gonna leave without you.”

And then he marches off, apparently done with what he was about to say.

Dean feels himself deflate immediately and he rubs his forehead, groaning so loudly probably even his grandchildren will be able to hear it. This fucking morning is an utter disaster, that's absolutely certain. Getting yelled at by Sam, having his emotions pulled out into the open by his mother and now having all the time in the world for worrying about Castiel leaving Lebanon.

Maybe he should just go back to Trisha and dig up some more graves. It'd been more fun than this shit show.

“Well, that was _a lot_ of tension in one single room,” in the end Mary chimes in, releasing a breath. “Kinda suffocating, to be honest.”

Dean winces at the tone in her voice. “Mom –”

“You both _really_ need to fuck this out of your system,” she decides and nods like this is the only logical solution.

Dean merely moans and buries his face in his palms.

Yeah, being forced by Trisha to rummage in graveyard dirt is _way_ more fun!

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


For the next two days Castiel avoids him as good as it gets.

Dean feels him glancing and glaring from a safe distance almost constantly, but he keeps away, obviously not eager to hit a wrong nerve with the hunter and get into a heated argument all over again.

On the one hand Dean is kinda relieved since he's seriously not in the mood to fight with the guy anymore than he did before, but at the same time there's a hole growing in his chest because of the open space between them. Dean honestly believed that after everything with Trisha and their nice midnight tea things might change between them, even if he didn't overhear Dean spilling out his super sappy feelings to his mother. Dean figured they would become closer, maybe finally say a few things they never admitted to each other.

Instead there seems to be this abyss between them and Dean doesn't dare to cross it, afraid that he might fall down and be lost forever.

The remaining inhabitants of the bunker appear to recognize the tension between hunter and Man of Letters as well and, being well versed in studiously avoiding getting caught in the middle on any kind of conflict between those two individuals, stay away, too. Dean barely speaks more than a few words to a soul, everyone suddenly so occupied with “work” that they can't manage to spare some time for an old friend.

As expected, when Dean and Castiel finally find themselves inside the Impala, leaving the bunker's garage and heading toward Jenkins' place, Castiel stays silent for a long while, simply staring out of the window and looking seriously strained.

Dean tries to lighten the atmosphere after he gets sick and tired of the quiet tension filling the car's interior, telling some tales of past hunts he's quite sure he never shared with Castiel before, but apart from a few glances Dean doesn't get much of a reaction from the other man.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Dean eventually finds himself asking, the question burning on his tongue since he first heard of it. “About Finley and that mind reading thing going both ways?”

Castiel looks up from his phone, appearing surprised that Dean would want to talk about that. That he even would remember. “Well, I didn't deem it important.”

The hunter snorts. _Of course_ Castiel would render it irrelevant.

“It _is_ important!” Dean objects, grinding his teeth. “You were in her fucking head, for Christ's sake!”

Castiel is quiet for a moment, obviously evaluating his next words. “I didn't read her mind and she didn't read mine,” he clarifies. “We were mainly at each others' front doors, trying to peak inside. I threw some threatening images at her, hoping to scare her off.”

Dean starts to squirm in his seat. “Yeah, she, uh, told me about that.”

How Castiel showed her pictures of Dean being a terrifying bad ass in the hopes of intimidating her.

“And in return I got a feel of her personality,” Castiel explains. “As I said, she is a rational person. She isn't led by emotions or a thirst for revenge. Going after me yet again would make no sense at all.” He shakes his head. “She wasn't able to crack me the first time and by now she probably found dozens of other possible resources to get her information about the Men of Letters. I'm not her first priority anymore.”

Dean's grip around the wheel tightens. “But still …” he cuts in. “You know so much more about the organization than the average Joe. If you, as you said, dug deep enough already, she most likely found out about that at some point. She's probably furious with herself for letting such a big fish as you go.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “There are bigger fish than me,” he counters. “Bigger fish who are not covered in anti-mind-reading tattoos like me.”

“Cas …”

“And what about you, huh?” Castiel folds his arms across his chest, shooting the hunter a dirty look. “I didn't make such a fuss when you started going on hunts again, did I? Finley attacked you, too, remember? Knows your face, your connection to the Men of Letters. You were probably at a higher risk peaking her interest than me. And still I let you go because I was quite aware that I couldn't lock you up in the bunker for all eternity.”

Dean chews on his bottom lip, realizing that he doesn't have a real counterargument for that. Granted, his confrontation with Finley didn't end with him in a coma, but it's been a close call. She pinned him to that wall, made his body stop working and she could've done all kinds of things to him if she would've desired to do so.

It's been pure luck and Finley discovering some sort of mercy buried deep inside of her that Dean got away unscathed.

He shuts his eyes for a millisecond before suddenly wheeling the car on the side of the road and stopping the engine.

Castiel raises his brows. “What are you doing?”

Dean rubs the back of his neck. “You're right, I was an ass. I'm sorry.”

Castiel seems taken aback for a minute, apparently not being prepared for an apology of all things, before eventually his features soften. “You weren't an ass, Dean. Just a bit … overprotective.”

“ _Annoyingly_ overprotective,” Dean corrects him. “I sometimes turn into this obnoxious mother-hen and I lose any sense of reason, I just can't help it. That's the way I worry about people. How I try to keep them safe.”

“It's a special charm of yours, that's for sure.”

“It wasn't fair of me to expect you would stay at the bunker until the whole thing is sorted out.” He scoffs. “You're right, it could take _months_ or even _years_. You shouldn't have to be a prisoner only 'cause I can't handle the tiny chance that Finley might come back for you at some point. It was stupid of me.”

“Thank you for saying that.”

“And, I mean, people need sunlight and fresh air and all that crap,” Dean continues. “It wasn't fair of me to deprive you of that. Or to _believe_ I could deprive you of that. Considering you're a big boy and can make your own decisions and you don't need me to tell you what to do …”

He trails off, not sure what he was about to say.

Castiel's whole demeanor gentles even more at the sight of Dean rambling away. “Your opinion matters a great deal,” he emphasizes. “There's a reason I asked you to come with me instead of just taking off. I knew you would worry endlessly. And then you would yell at me.” The corner of his mouth tug upwards. “I couldn't risk that.”

“So this is like … a test drive?” Dean wonders. “Taking me along to make me see there is nothing to worry about?”

There is suddenly something odd glazing over Castiel's eyes and he ducks his head as he answers, “Something like that, yes. At least I was waiting for your return to … well, get the show on the road, so to speak.”

His voice sounds strange and Dean knows right away that there is more to it than that, but he doesn't pry. The poor guy looks uncomfortable and Dean seriously has bothered him more than enough in the last weeks.

“How about, after we get those documents from Jenkins, we do something fun and very outdoorsy together?” Dean suggests, smirking. “No underground bunkers, no walls, no artificial light. Just, I dunno, nature and whatnot. You like that stuff, right?”

Castiel huffs an amused laugh. “Yes, I like _that stuff_.”

“Then let's do that,” Dean proposes. “I mean, there are some nice trails around here, right? We could grab some food and be on our way. Hell, you could even get a tent and sleep underneath the stars, if you want.”

Castiel looks all kinds of incredulous. “You want to go _hiking_ with me?”

Dean shrugs it off, hoping for nonchalant, but probably failing spectacularly. “Yeah, I mean … you think it's fun, right? And it doesn't sound _that_ bad.”

Castiel doesn't say anything, simply stares at Dean.

And his face … well, Dean has no clue how to describe it. So many emotions are flickering over Castiel's features, more than the hunter has seen there ever before, and for a moment Dean is absolutely convinced that Castiel would lean over and kiss him right here, right now.

At least it's _exactly_ the expression Dean always imagined Castiel would wear right before kissing someone.

Before kissing _him_.

The hunter's heart pounds like crazy in his chest as he looks back at Castiel, waiting for something to unfold. For those beautiful lips to find his, for their breaths to intermingle, for a heat spreading through Dean's body so unfamiliar he wouldn't have the foggiest what to do with it …

But in the end it doesn't happen.

Castiel merely clears his throat awkwardly and drops his gaze as he mumbles, “We should get going. Jenkins doesn't appreciate tardiness.”

Dean stays frozen for a moment, considering whether his instincts became seriously _that bad_ over time, and his heart squeezes while he scolds himself for getting his freaking hopes up. Did he _honestly_ expect Castiel to kiss him right here, on the side of the road, while a stupid bird is shitting on Baby's windshield?

Yeah, no dice. Obviously.

Dean swallows his disappointment and starts the car again, wondering how long this hollow feeling in his stomach would stay around.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Jenkins' house is, as expected, in the middle of nowhere.

That old bat has never been a people person in the first place, so Dean is not surprised to learn that he retired at the edge of a forest, far away from any human interaction. If he wouldn't have to leave once in a while to get groceries, he probably would stay here forever and scare off every random person walking by with his shotgun.

Dean takes a deep breath as he parks his car underneath an oak tree and shuts down the engine. He seriously doesn't look forward to spending his next few hours here, but since Castiel is so keen on enjoying his freedom that he's even willing to listen to Jenkins' countless complaints about his never-visiting family Dean can be a bigger man, too, just grab his book and retreat to a quiet corner.

Jenkins wouldn't mind ignoring him and Dean wouldn't mind being ignored.

As long as Castiel is happy, the hunter is able to endure almost anything.

Dean grasps his Vonnegut book lying on the backseat (because he always likes to be prepared) and fumbles for the door handle to get this shit show on the road to have it over with as soon as possible, but suddenly he feels a strong hand gripping his wrist and he pauses.

Dean looks up to meet Castiel's eyes and he's again confronted with a gaze he's incapable of interpreting.

Is he missing something here?

“I'm sorry,” Castiel suddenly whispers, pressing his lips into a thin line.

Dean can't do anything else but frown. “For what?”

Castiel stays silent for a moment and scoops a bit closer. “I'm sorry,” he repeats, his voice a little steadier now. “For what is about to happen.”

Dean blinks a few times. “You mean you and Jenkins talking about boring stuff for the rest of the day? It's like every day in the bunker.” He shrugs his shoulders casually. “I can handle nerdy stuff. I've done it all my life so far. I've got my book and as long as Jenkins' fridge is stocked I'm good to –”

“You don't understand, I'm _really_ sorry,” Castiel cuts in and he actually looks _stricken_. Guilty as hell.

What the fuck?

Dean narrows his eyes. “Okay, Cas, what is going on?”

He's got no real clue what to make of this. He doesn't even want to call it sudden, considering Castiel had been acting weird and evasive for days now. There is _clearly_ something Dean is missing here.

But before he can start a tirade of pestering questions Castiel's hand suddenly strokes the nape of Dean's neck, brushing over his skin so softly yet so electrifying, that Dean's brain promptly short-circuits at the contact and he can't do anything else but stare at the man in front of him with a slack jaw.

“There is no other way, Dean,” Castiel breaths. “But still, I'm _so_ sorry.”

And then he leans in, his lips grazing Dean's cheek for a millisecond. It's chaster than most of the kisses he got from his freaking mom, but Dean's heart nonetheless jumps through the roof like he's a damned teenager again and hadn't even managed to get to first base with another person until just now.

Castiel, however, doesn't seem aware of Dean's inner turmoil. He only offers him a strained smile and says, “Let's go,” before exiting the car, taking his warm hand and so many fucking questions with him.

Dean finds himself frozen to the spot for a moment, trying desperately to control all those emotions somersaulting inside of him while simultaneously attempting to figure out what the hell just happened, and in the end it takes a lot of willpower to climb out of the car and follow Castiel to the front door. Mostly his legs work on autopilot which Dean is entirely grateful for since it would've been highly counterproductive staying stuck in the Impala for who knows how long.

“Okay, man, what the hell is going on?” Dean demands to know as Castiel raises his hand to ring the doorbell. “What the fuck are you sorry for?”

Castiel opens his mouth, maybe to answer or maybe to avert the question, but he's interrupted by the door opening.

Dean huffs, feeling all kinds of pent up, while he glances at the entrance, fully expecting to see himself confronted with a grumpy old man who loves sweater vests almost just as much as Castiel, and more than ready to wave Jenkins off for the time being and continue his conversation with Castiel.

But then his blood turns to ice as he spots the person opening the door.

Who is not Jenkins.

It's Finley.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAIT, WHAAAAT????
> 
> Okay, what the hell is happening here??? O__________o Why is Finley suddenly here? Why did Cas act so weird? And did he really didn't hear Dean's love confession in the kitchen??
> 
> Now I NEED to know!!!
> 
> It seems like we have to kick the author in the ass to hurry up with the next chapter, right? ;DD

**Author's Note:**

> For more Destiel and SPN you can also follow my [tumblr](http://peanutbutterjelly-pie.tumblr.com) :D
> 
> And for more specific news about updates, trivia or just simple ramblings about this story you can also take a look at my tag for this story [HERE](http://peanutbutterjelly-pie.tumblr.com/tagged/stth) :))


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